All I Can Do
by smarty0007
Summary: Collection of events that eventually culminates in an understanding. And boy, does it take forever.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing!

 **Notes:** This is sort of a collection of loosely-related thought-paintings that I've had and wanted to string together based on the song "It's All I Can Do" by the Cars. It jumps back and forth in time a little but mostly progresses (eventually) towards my favorite moment. Thank you for reading! :]

 _"One too many times I fell over you"_

Bob had yelled at her that morning for leaving her shoes in a convenient place for him to trip over—next to the stairs like she always did. Miriam hadn't even said goodbye.

She'd sailed like a ghost through the school day, borrowing a cookie, an apple, a handful of chips from random classmates at lunch (Phoebe wasn't at their usual table due to some stupid student council meeting), doodling in class, trying to remain inconspicuous.

She'd forgotten to pack one of her assignments, a paper she'd been slaving over all week. Her teacher gave her a hard time despite her exemplary precedent, and only after hearing a well-crafted case that might have come from the mind of a lawyer instead of a high school junior, finally relented and swapped a ten point deduction for outright failure.

"Only this _once_ , Ms. Pataki," her teacher sighed sternly.

"Got it, teach."

And her shrink, after years of irregularly scheduled meetings, still managed to pretend sincere wonderment at why her favorite patient was so very irritable.

"Helga, how are you today?"

"Can I just lie here and not talk for once?"

"Sure. I can talk. What would you like me to talk about?"

"Lemon. Pudding."

"Lemon pudding?"

"Yep. God knows I haven't heard enough about it."

She shuffled along the sidewalk aimlessly.

 _What a lousy day… I wonder what Arnold's doing…_ "UNGHF!"

She knew who it would be before she even opened her eyes. She did not have the energy for this, not today. She'd already almost strangled one poor sap to death. Two was asking too much.

"Oh man, Helga—are you okay?!"

She thought she wouldn't mind just dozing here on the sun-warmed sidewalk for a while—at least she wouldn't be walking home. Bob had had a huge sale today.

"Don't tell me—I'm trying to guess if it's a skateboard or roller blades." Her index fingers drew circles mysteriously over her temples. "Wait, it's coming through—I see a roundish object—a wheel, perhaps—"

She heard Arnold's laugh. The sunlight that had been illuminating the insides of her eyelids was suddenly blocked.

A hand was on her shoulder. _Skateboard, probably_.

It was lying abandoned and upside-down on the sidewalk a few feet away. One of its wheels was still spinning slowly in the air. She blinked up at Arnold, who was already in the process of lifting her to a sitting position.

"Did you hit your head?" he was saying in what she thought was a ridiculous bedside manner.

"Don't think so," her voice ground out. She didn't feel the familiar tug of war today—no compulsion to shout at or shove him off of her.

"You sure?" A suspicious-looking _look_ was on his face. "Here, let me..."

"Don't worry—I won't sue you if that's—"

Then her face was in his hands and he was turning it towards him.

"W-what are you doing?" she almost gasped.

"Checking your eyes." His own were scrutinizing.

"What for?"

He shrugged, and she felt her chin move slightly upwards with the motion. "Concussion."

The feeling seeped out of her legs. "Oh."

"I thought you knew all about stuff like this—you know, first aid?" He was staring hard at her. She didn't know where to look.

"Just your run-of-the-mill CPR." She felt that he didn't need to know it was out of necessity and not from a gushing angelic-like desire to save people. She didn't want to think about them—the _what-ifs_ that hid in the dark place under the living room sofa.

He nodded. "Look up there, towards the sun…" After a substantial moment of careful inspection, during which Helga felt incredibly naked and twitchy, he sighed, satisfied. "Nope, you're good."

"Glad I could ease your conscience…." Helga's shoulders slumped despite her effort at nonchalance.

He hoisted her to her feet. She didn't know why she was letting him do this. "Helga!" he said, appearing to take great offense. "I couldn't live with myself if I'd given you a brain injury!" He paused, then added with a grin, "Again."

Before she could respond, he gave her shoulder a squeeze. He took a deep breath through his nose, bent to snatch up his skateboard—and then, as he turned to speed away, the words tumbled out of his mouth, "Your eyes are a really pretty blue, by the way."

Helga could have slapped herself. Her voice croaked after him, "Just—watch where you're going!"

But she wasn't frowning per se. She didn't know for sure what she was doing, since her body was entirely numb.

Arnold must have thought it was something sufficient because he shot her _that_ look as he turned the corner. Helga's heart fluttered. _Maybe today's not so lousy after all._

 _Her legs got caught in his—or was it his that were caught in hers?_

 _None of it mattered as they fell sideways or backwards or forwards, one or both of them letting out an awkward grunt of pain and the other or both laughing at the gracelessness of it all—purposefully colliding this time._

 _How had they gotten to this? Who was responsible?_

 _"_ _Be with me?"_

 _"_ _I love you."_

 _"_ _You don't_ know _that. You just think you're supposed to say it."_

 _"_ _You obviously—don't_ know _—me."_

 _"_ _I'm about to."_

 _"_ _Touché."_

 _"_ _Don't mind if I do…"_

 _"_ _Two double entendres—Helga, I'm—impressed."_

 _"_ _If that impresses you, then hold on to your hat—"_

 _Someone gasped._

 _"_ _You're too fast for me—was that three—or four—oh no… don't…"_

 _His groan was lost in her shout of a laugh._

 _"_ _If it makes you feel better, I love you too, Arnold. Now shut up."_


	2. Chapter 2

_"Once in a shadow I finally grew"_

 _Olga was prancing around the house._

 _Helga was three. Not quite old enough to understand what a spelling bee was, but old enough to know it was very important to her parents, especially her father._

 _Crayons littered the floor. Her masterpiece was almost complete—flowers upon flowers of color, and in the center, an enormous bumble bee. The random semblance of letters surrounding it was meant to be the spelling part. She was especially proud of the letters—she'd taught them to herself, one by one, scrutinized from dusty magazines in the bathroom. When she was almost ready to show Miriam—she usually approached Miriam before Bob to work out the kinks—Olga skipped loudly into the foyer._

 _The crash shook the house almost as much as the high-pitched wail of pain._

 _"_ _What's going on in here?!"_

 _"_ _Oooh—my ankle—"_

 _"_ _How many times have I said not to leave your stuff all over the floor?"_

 _The injustice of it all stung her eyes. "But Daddy, Olga was running in the—"_

 _"_ _Get your fanny upstairs to your room! We've got to get your sister to the hospital. Miriam!"_

 _Her paper was trampled in the ensuing chaos. The bee was torn in two. Now it would never hang up on the refrigerator next to Olga's report card._

 _"_ _You stay put until we get home. I don't want to come back to a burning house." The door slammed. It was quiet._

 _Maybe she would try a painting next. Yes, a painting. She put her crayons, one by one, into their box, joining the broken fragments into respective columns the best she could, and emotionlessly slid the box into the deepest corner of her closet._

Helga was abruptly pulled from her reverie by a large hand on her shoulder.

"We're real proud of you, Little Lady."

Bob was wrapping an arm around her in an awkward back-clapping hug. Helga felt her cap fall off her head, but she didn't really care. The sun beat down uncomfortably.

"We're—just going to miss you, Sweetie. Going off to college and—" Miriam sniffled, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

"Highest honors—rugby captain—full scholarship—" Bob was dangerously close to tears himself. "Knew you had it in ya."

Olga's typical squeal of gushing excitement was miraculously absent, its owner somehow unable to fly home for the ceremony due to one obligation or another. No one to rain on Helga's parade, then. At least, not for today. She had them all to herself. Peachy. She didn't understand why she felt so hollow.

"Yeah, yeah… Get a hold of yourselves… I'm here all summer." She glanced over at Phoebe who was practically radiant with joy, surrounded by their chattering friends, still coming down from the elation of her valedictorian speech. Helga had had the unfortunate privilege to listen to its saccharine anecdotes (and many iterations) several times beforehand in Phoebe's bedroom. By now she knew the cracks of that ceiling by heart.

Helga thought of last week's session with Dr. Bliss. A business card and a hug—how was this supposed to help her through college?

Stinky was posing for a picture with Harold and Sid. Rhonda and Nadine had their arms slung around each other. Rhonda's father looked like he had a brand new camera and had no idea how to operate it. She could see where the princess had gotten her flair. Katrinka and Lila were being summoned to join the photo. Arnold and Gerald were high-fiving in the most cliché way she'd ever seen. She might vomit.

Miriam stooped to pick up Helga's cap and started dusting the grass clippings off it.

"I'll be right back." Helga's head swam. "Bathroom."

"But honey—"

"Let the girl have some privacy, for cripes' sake, Miriam! Hey—pour some of this lighter fluid on the grill, would ya?"

"Oh, B.—"

"Hoo-ah, it's hot. Got the cooler right here, boys!"

"Thanks, Mr. Pataki!"

"I sure do love me a Yahoo!"

The path she took started off in a would-be casual walk, but now she was jogging, running, practically sprinting. She stopped when she was finally consumed in cool shadow under the bleachers.

That's where Arnold found her, dramatically sobbing (and quite possibly talking) pitifully to herself.

If she weren't so overwhelmed, she might have sworn he'd knocked politely on one of the metal beams before stooping into the dark. "Helga? Are you okay?" he called softly into this cramped and dirty makeshift sanctuary.

The sobbing abruptly stopped. Helga's tormented face snapped towards him. "W-what do you think you're doing—can't you see I'm—I'm—"

"Upset?"

Why did he have to be so calm and reasonable? She glanced at the open bottle in his hand, then glared off towards the old grayish-brown brick buildings in the distance as a response. The myriad cars in the parking lot gleamed.

Uninvited, he shuffled towards her over the noisy gravel. He nudged a trampled wrapper aside with a foot to plop down next to her.

"Want some?"

After a few seconds of unanswered silence, Arnold set the drink on a rough ledge behind them and pulled his knees towards himself. Maybe he thought mirroring her curled posture would make him seem more agreeable. Curse him and his stupid student mediation club.

Arnold took his cap off, completing the reflection. He pointed at her hair, left hanging wild and long, and then at his own, inexpertly combed flat. "Funny, huh? Nobody'll recognize us in the pictures."

"Did I _say_ I wanted your company?" Her eyes strained ahead mutinously.

"No. But I'm here anyway," he persisted. "At least until you feel better."

"Your skills won't help you here, Arnold."

"Skills?"

She picked up a hefty rock and chucked it at one of the struts. It clanged off at a sharp angle. Arnold blinked, then shrugged and picked up a smaller rock to lob at the same spot. It pinged away in the same direction. "Ha! Not bad!"

"Don't tell me you're not trying to pull some _psycho-cology_ crap. I know all those tricks. I ain't biting."

He smiled at her air-quotations, reminded of a certain bowling match long ago.

"What about… oh, I don't know… being your friend?" He tapped the edge of his cap on her knee.

The knee twitched, just barely. "Since when were we friends?"

Arnold took a moment to reply, as if her question weren't a rhetorical Helga-ism and as if he were carefully considering a real answer. "We've always been friends."

"If you say so." She smiled wryly. "Won't matter anyway."

"What does that mean?"

"This just in: we're going away to college, the next phase of our lives! Do you honestly believe we'll all be bosom buddies forever?"

Arnold raised an eyebrow at her. "You mean, you're _not_ going to keep running that gambling ring with Harold on the weekends?"

Helga snorted. "What do you think?"

"Guess not…." He sighed thoughtfully. "But we'll have a good time this summer. And don't forget about breaks. We'll keep in touch."

"You wouldn't keep in touch with me... or Sid, or Rhonda…. Gerald, maybe."

"And why not you?" He didn't say 'or Sid, or Rhonda.'

"Because… because," she was spluttering now, "there's nothing about me that would be _interesting_ to you."

"Helga, you're probably the most _interesting_ person I've ever met."

"Yeah, right." Her words dripped with mistrust.

His voice softened in a strangely shy way. "Of course I'd want to know what you were up to." The cap rotated slowly through his hands, the tassel brushing the dusty ground.

"I don't see why."

"How about I call you?" He seemed in earnest. "Or if you prefer that I write… I can do that instead. Didn't you have a terrible pen-pal back in Ms. Slovak's class?

Helga grunted.

"I bet I'd make a much better one."

"Pen-pals? Seriously, how old are we again?" She scrubbed at her cheeks and jawline with her itchy polyester sleeve. It only managed to spread the moisture around. "You've _got_ to be kidding me."

"Here…" he pushed back the rough sleeve of his own gown and unbuttoned a crisp shirt cuff underneath. He held his wrist a few inches in front of her face and looked at her expectantly.

She gave a particularly loud sniff and stared back in rigid bewilderment.

Arnold sighed. "Never mind." He shook back his sleeve and stood slowly, careful to avoid hitting his head on the metal corner above. "I think I saw a cake somewhere. Let's go get some before Harold finds it." He stooped to offer her a hand.

Helga shrugged, "That sounds unlikely. Okay." She reached behind her and held up the Yahoo. He merely transferred it to his other hand and, nimble as a cat, caught her fingers to pull her up and along with him.

"I thought you'd want to bet him he can't eat the whole thing." They ducked under the ledge and squinted around them. Bright dust swirled around their legs.

"And ruin this once in a lifetime experience with an hour of Pink-Boy blowing chunks?" Helga coughed. "Of course."

Arnold didn't let go of Helga's hand until they made it to the plastic folding tables covered in cheap plastic table cloths. Not until he handed her a plastic plate topped with a plastic fork and plastic-tasting slice of cake that some parent, probably Gerald's mother, had volunteered to cut.

He'd never asked Helga what she was really crying about. It was like he understood that it wasn't the point.

Much later, years and years later, she would (admittedly grudgingly) tell him that when she'd emerged from the shadow of the bleachers with him, she'd realized it was her turn now. And thank him for pulling her back into the sun.


	3. Chapter 3

_"And once in a night I dreamed you were there"_

 _Seventeen-year-old Helga stared at the clock on her night stand. Four AM. Helga rolled onto her other side and closed her eyes, simultaneously dreading and relishing the raw edge of emotion she could feel retreating beyond the dark confines of sleep._

 _While she hadn't eaten pork rinds in years, to be absolutely secure, when she arrived at school she immediately employed Phoebe to draw up a strict new amendment to their sidekick agreement. Of course, Phoebe had never needed a contractual obligation to slap sense into Helga, but this was an exceptional case._

 _"_ _Just do it, Phoebe."_

 _"_ _But Helga, I don't see how this is any different from—"_

 _"_ _Pheebs," Helga pleaded, "remember that movie we snuck into last summer—"_

 _Phoebe blushed. "About the—"_

 _"_ _Yes, that one." Helga glanced nervously over her shoulder._

 _"_ _What does that have to do with pork-rinds? Oh… oh my."_

 _"_ _Yeah, 'oh my' is right."_

 _"_ _Helga!" Phoebe giggled nervously._

 _"_ _This is serious. Sign it!" Helga demanded impatiently._

Helga woke abruptly in her twin bed, not sure where she was at first. The bedsheet was twisted into a sweltering knot around her, and she barely avoided jettisoning herself onto the floor while trying to free her legs. She cursed loudly.

A familiar someone had entered the realm of her dreams, and this time it was yet again decidedly _not_ in a moral-dilemma-consultant-type fashion. Her heart felt incredibly warm in her body. She could feel it thudding solidly, the echoes of it spreading to her fingers and back. Blinking at the sun-glazed room, she waited for her eyes to adjust before she swiveled her head around for the source of the noise that had woken her.

She picked up her phone and almost immediately dropped it. Speak of the devil. Missed call from Arnold Shortman. She didn't remember ever giving him her cell number, but she'd long ago stolen his from one friend or another—probably Sid. That idiot had Arnold on speed-dial under "Lawyer."

Several weeks into the first semester, Helga had begun to enjoy (or at least tolerate) her classes. She started to feel an inkling that she _belonged_ somewhere. Consistent with keeping her hard edges filed sharp, she doggedly refused to get sucked back into the vortex of theater geekdom, cutting briskly through the Eugenes and Sheenas and Curlys roaming the quad on her way to her secret corner in the library. She shook her head at the poor saps who determinedly wore head-to-toe black, sweating in the fading summer heat. Once, she stared incredulously at two of them reading lines in the most passionless voices she ever heard—they could seriously use a good director.

She thought of Phoebe. Phoebe _knew_ her. These bozos weren't worth the effort. Not yet.

At the outset, Bob and Miriam had actually planned to help her move in, not that she had much in the way of possessions or furniture or even wearable clothing. She was ungainly and tall—she wished she could find a decent pair of jeans to break up the monotony of dresses and skirts and various oversized gym clothes she'd hauled into this unfamiliar room, wadded up in a heavy duffel bag. Hell, maybe she'd convert a few older dresses into skirts or pants if she could find the time. Perhaps the design school had a serger she could steal. _Pink-Pants Pataki they'll call me. Criminy._

It had been strange, watching her aging parents drive away, Miriam waving tearfully out of the passenger window until the old family car finally turned at the end of the narrow one-way street.

It had been even stranger facing the prospect of how to sleep in a room with another person, a person who she soon found to snore obnoxiously loudly. Phoebe had once (very cautiously) told Helga that she snored, but Helga hadn't cared then. Now, as she lay awake at night glaring at the ceiling, she could empathize with her best friend.

But the strangest part of all had been when she answered the phone that first lonely evening to a rather somber-sounding Bob on the other end, checking to see that she was okay and reminding her that they "would miss you being around the house, girl."

"Yeah, yeah—it's only been like seven _hours_ …" Then she mumbled, "I'll… miss you too, Dad."

This morning was quiet. Her roommate was gone, then. She leaned over the edge of the bed slightly—the trombone case was absent from its usual spot in the corner. Helga realized cheerfully that she would have the room to herself all day if she wanted. Dust motes wafted in and out of the sunlight. Maybe she'd write a bit. Maybe she'd do a tantric spell for old times' sake, she mused drily.

The phone hovered teasingly in her peripheral. Helga stared fixedly at the dingy popcorn ceiling and wondered why on earth someone would deign to call anyone before noon on a Saturday, but then she reminded herself that this was Arnold Shortman, bio-boy extraordinaire, the kind of guy who thought waking up at four to watch the sunrise was an absolutely glorious idea. Filthy thoughts rolled unbidden to her mind about other things one could do at dawn, but she hastily derailed this train.

She buried her face in her pillow and thought back to the last weekend of summer. Arnold had knocked on her front door, decked out in shorts and a t-shirt, the obvious messenger. The gang was waiting for her at Gerald Field, but she'd completely forgotten during the chaos of packing for college.

He'd leaned on her stoop while she ran upstairs to change. They'd walked over together, not saying much—calling it _one last game_ felt so _final_ —but they'd played like it was any other game. Then he walked her home—his offer sounded no different than it usually did, and her answer was just as practiced, despite her anxiety over the matter.

The anxiety turned out to be all for nothing anyway. There was no version of the amazing searing kiss that she'd composed and replayed so many times in her mind, no friendly hug, no gesture that was out of the ordinary, not even a formal handshake. She'd glanced back at him as she opened her door, and he'd stood at the bottom of her steps with his hands at his sides, a look on his face that seemed neither happy nor sad. _Thoughtful_ , perhaps.

Her phone buzzed faintly from its perch on the dresser. There was a new voicemail. Dare she listen to it? She lowered herself over the edge of the bed and walked to the wardrobe, determinedly looking anywhere else.

Throughout the day she debated with herself. _Should she delete it without listening to it?_ She sipped her strong coffee—decidedly _not_ a mocha latte—at the student center, trying to distract herself with a fresh newspaper. She took an enormous bite of donut and chomped on it with a vengeance. _She could pretend it had never happened_.

She walked along the tree-lined sidewalk, looking for an open bench. Steam wafted up from the street. _She could 'accidentally' drop her phone into that open manhole._ It was a tantalizing image. Maybe the phone would fall and fall and fall to the center of the earth or be snatched up prematurely by rats and delivered to the Sewer King himself. She shuddered despite the pleasant weather.

 _'_ _G' and 'H' are adjacent in the alphabet. Arnold must have hung up as soon as he realized he dialed the wrong number. Of course that's it._ She imagined the look of horror on his face as he stumbled through a made-up reason for calling her. _Yes, it's all one big mistake. Hello—goodbye—end of story._

That evening, finally out of excuses, she sat morosely on her bed. The phone stared back at her from the dresser. Her roommate stared for a minute or so too before turning warily back to her book.

 _Well, it's now or never, old girl._ Hesitantly, gingerly, she opened her phone and pushed the button. And then her ear was awash in his voice, her torso falling in slow motion to land with a soft bounce on the narrow twin mattress.

"… Anyway, it would be nice to talk to you. Bye."

To her. To Helga. To talk to her. Helga. "He wants to talk to _me_ …" she breathed.

A blond young man, a few states away and several hours earlier, had also woken abruptly. The back of his t-shirt was damp. He opened his mouth to ask his roommate if he'd heard a noise, just to be sure he wasn't hearing things, but the kid was clearly dead to the world in the bunk across the room. The question died before it left his lips.

He slid his hand along the back of his clammy neck and bit his lip, thinking hard about the psychology lecture he'd attended the day before. The sun was peeking through the dark trees. He knew what he needed to do. It was this or keep having these crazy dreams. He picked up his phone and finally dialed the number he'd been agonizing over for weeks. It rang once, twice, three times—"Hi Helga. It's Arnold. I hope you're having a good time at college…"

Helga didn't call him back, but she did listen to that voice message until she could recite it softly to herself by heart, every pause and every little shift in tone nailed down in delicious perfection. Sometimes at night, she lay in her bed, phone clamped to her ear, letting his voice wash her into oblivion.

Let the band geek think she was insane. No snot out of her nose.


	4. Chapter 4

_"I canceled my flight from going nowhere"_

Helga was supposed to be leaving early the next morning, but she wasn't in her childhood bed like she should have been. She was halfway across town, standing on a familiar street corner where she used to jump rope almost every day of her misspent youth. She'd watched the boarding house's glowing skylight loom closer as she walked through Hillwood, pleasantly full of burger and fries on her way from a long-awaited rendezvous with Phoebe.

She knew that Arnold was supposed to be gone by now, not that she had memorized his schedule or anything, but she had it on good authority from a chain of reliable sources that his flight was supposed to have left earlier that afternoon.

 _"_ _Hey—Stink-O! Where's the Football Head?"_

 _"_ _If you mean Arnold, just saw 'im this afternoon at Gerald Field. How come ya didn't come play with us?"_

 _"_ _I was busy, Einstein." Helga pointed at Phoebe across the booth. "We had some girly-girl stuff we had to do. Nothing you'd know about."_

 _"_ _Well, if ya wanted to catch up with Arnold or somethin', he's already on a jet plane back to school."_

 _"_ _Who said I wanted to talk to him?"_

 _"_ _Look at you, Helga, tryin' to be coy."_

 _"_ _We're done here."_

 _"_ _Lovely to see you too. Hey, Phoebe!"_

 _"_ _Hi, Stinky."_

 _"_ _How's that fancy Ocean World internship goin'?"_

 _"_ _Rather excellently! Spamoo is quite the stubborn orca, but—"_

 _"_ _She'll fix his wagon, all right? Keep walkin'."_

 _"_ _Take care, Phoebe, Helga…. Hey, Harold—those're my fries!"_

 _"_ _Nuh uh! I don't know what you're talkin' about!"_

Obviously, something must be wrong.

So she stealthily crossed the street and lurked in the shadows, vigilant sentry, watching his window. She would leave when he went to sleep, she told herself. And then she waited.

And waited….

"What in Sam Hill—" someone was shouting, "—is that the _Pataki_ girl?!"

"Huh?" Startled, she banged her head. A stack of empty cardboard boxes toppled in a pile of soft thuds behind her.

"What're you doin' down there?" said the bemused voice, thankfully not shouting anymore.

Helga was lodged at a weird angle between two trash cans, cramped and cold. She opened her eyes blearily and looked around, bewildered by the bright light of dawn. She felt like she'd been hit by a truck.

Towering above her, appearing halfway between skeptical and amused, was Arnold's grandpa. He was holding a bulging plastic bag in one hand and a rusty lid in the other, comically paused in whatever action he had been in the middle of.

"I was—I was—uh… looking for…" Helga's hair and clothes were clearly rumpled from slumping against the fence all night. "My glasses—right, my—sunglasses. You seen 'em?" She pulled a wrapper hastily out of her hair and shielded her eyes from the glare. "They're uh… purple. Yeah, purple… with… with… pink polka dots!"

Phil raised an eyebrow, as if he were trying to decide how long he would let her drag out this crazy excuse. He opted for the merciful route.

"I'm only guessing," he dropped the bag with a dull clang into one of the rusted cans and then slowly squatted to look her in the eye, "but I think I know why you're here. It's about Arnold, right?"

"A-Arnold? N-no—I don't know what you're—"

"You're not here to see the Shortman?"

"I was... just on my way… to…"

 _Young people_ … Phil paused carefully. "He's going to be fine, but Abner… you'll remember Abner." He rubbed his chin and turned away to wipe at his cheek. "Poor pig… getting up there, you know—" He sniffed loudly.

"Oh, that's… too bad. Sorry to hear that."

"Lucky the Shortman was home for the night, I guess," he sighed.

Helga nodded, stupefied.

"Okay." Phil straightened up, his bones creaking in his lanky legs. "Now that we've got that out of the way, do you want to come inside or not?"

"Um, that's okay—maybe some other time—" She got to her feet a little shakily and rubbed at her sore hip.

"You mean to tell me," the old man started, a devious glint in his eye, "you're getting an actual _invitation_ to come inside the boarding house, and you're _not_ taking it?" Phil clutched his face dramatically. "What is the world coming to? Which way is up? Where am I?"

Helga plowed ahead doggedly. "I think I should be getting home—I mean, I'm on my way to the airport—I-I've got a flight to catch—" Helga glanced nervously towards the street and tried to edge away.

"That so?"

"Yep! Nice seein' ya, Phil!" She took a few larger steps, swinging her arms jauntily.

"Where's your suitcase?"

"Suitcase? Oh, I—I travel light. Layers, yeah, that's it. Lots of layers."

"Hm." Clearly he could perceive the boldfaced lie. "You sure you don't want any coffee?" He smiled innocently. "Breakfast? Something for the road?"

What was the old man plotting? Her stomach gave an enormous growl. "I guess I could spare a few minutes… What've you got?"

Her third plate of eggs later, Arnold (and the boarders) hadn't yet emerged. That meant it was still early, maybe even early enough to grab another plane out of this city.

Arnold's Grandma was humming contentedly across the table, every so often expressing a warm comment to Helga about how well she looked these days or how good it was to see her. Helga responded by chugging her orange juice. Phil was staring, mouth agape, as she wolfed down yet another slice of toast, almost as if she hadn't eaten a real breakfast in her life.

"More OJ? Coffee?" He reached for the percolator.

"Nah, I think I should be getting along soon," she said through an enormous mouthful. She swallowed the bite and checked her watch. "You know, to the airport. Don't want to be late." She'd figure out the details later—she had Bob's credit card number down by heart.

"If you're sure…"

"Yep—"

"We'll send Kimba your love." Gertie smiled.

"Uh—heh—there's—I…" Helga's chair scraped backwards over the linoleum.

"Anything else you'd want to say to him?" Phil raised his voice slightly and leaned back in his chair expectantly, one long leg draped casually over the other. The chair wobbled almost dangerously on two legs.

"Tell him… tell him…" She almost whispered, "Sorry about his pig."

"Well, okay. Have a good flight."

"Yeah, thanks for the grub, Phil. Later, Gert." She was edging her way out of the kitchen. She could see the front door. Almost there.

Gertie surprised Helga when she glided quickly around the table and grabbed her arm gently. "We'll miss you, young lady. Bring us something home from your adventures!" She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "We know it's a secret mission and all, but you can trust us." She raised her spatula in salute, then stood on her toes to kiss Helga's hairline.

Helga shook her head dazedly. "Uh sure, thanks. Maybe I'll… send a postcard."

After a moment of composing herself on the stoop, slumped exhaustedly against the door, she released a sigh of relief (and a quick belch) before setting off briskly for the bus stop.

"Arnold, you can come out now. She's gone."

A voice hoarse with sleep called timidly from the top of the stairs. "How'd you know I was here?"

"Shortman, you've lived here for… I don't know, what—one, two—eighteen years? You don't think I know when you wake up?"

"Whatever," Arnold's voice grunted.

"Why didn't you just come down? Didn't you want to see your little blond friend?" When no answer came, he continued, "You two have known each other since you were barely able to walk!"

"She… hasn't returned my calls." Arnold's footsteps creaked through the kitchen wall as he descended.

"Hm. You don't say…"

Arnold emerged around the door frame without a response.

"So she's stopped picking on you and moved on to ignoring you? Playing hard to get, eh?"

"Well, I don't know if I would go that far. I haven't seen her in a while. You know… college." Arnold helped himself to some toast. It didn't look like he'd gotten a lot of sleep.

"I see."

"Yeah." Arnold picked up the paper absent-mindedly. "I thought I'd see her for our pickup game this weekend, but I guess she was busy."

"Interesting." Phil cleared his throat, "You know, I found her sleeping out in the garbage, like she'd been there all night, waiting for something."

"Hm." A short moment later, Arnold seemed compelled to add, "That's weird."

"You don't sound surprised…"

Arnold buried his face further into the newspaper. "I used to find Helga hanging out by the garbage cans at school all the time."

Grandpa raised an eyebrow.

"Guess you had to be there." Arnold looked up when Gertie offered him some green tea. "No thanks, Grandma. I think I'll make some hot chocolate in a minute."

"Well, Shortman. Seems like she still cares about you a lot. Sleeping amongst the rats and cockroaches and who knows what else! Mama Leone…"

Arnold looked up sharply. "Still?"

"Did I say _still_? Must be getting crazy in my old age…" Phil cackled heartily and grabbed a section of the paper before he headed upstairs.

"You all right, Kimba?"

"Yeah Grandma. I'm okay."

"Oh, and Arnold?" called Phil's voice from the second floor.

"Yeah?"

"I might've led Pataki on about Abner's little mishap with the cat."

Arnold folded the paper slowly. "What does that mean?"

Abner, meanwhile, was schlumping down the staircase towards the tantalizing smell of breakfast. Arnold reached out to scratch behind Abner's ear and leaned over to get a better look at his bandaged tail. He carefully adjusted the medical tape and straightened back up.

Phil hesitated. "Well… maybe I exaggerated some… made it sound like he kicked the bucket."

"You _what_?"

"Don't get your pants in a wad—it was the only way to get her inside the house! After all I did to stall that girl, the thanks I get—"

"Grandpa!"

"You can explain the miraculous porcine resurrection to her over one of your little _phone calls_. Not _my_ fault you were too spineless to get your patoot downstairs and do all the small-talking and cooking for her yourself."

" _Grandpa!_ " Arnold threw his head backwards.

"Can't talk. Office."

Arnold groaned. It was bad enough that his flight had been canceled last-minute due to the blizzard in Boston. He jumped up from his chair and jogged up the stairs.

When Helga landed, she would see she had another voicemail: "Hello, Arnold's little friend? This is Arnold's grandpa—Shortman gave me this number. I didn't want to _alarm_ you about Abner—he's not dead. He's very much alive and well. Just a sprained tail. Shortman says hello and thanks for visiting the boarding house. He's sorry he missed you. Okay. Gotta go."

Arnold hung up the land line and flipped onto his back to look up through the sky light. He let out a long breath before putting his hands behind his head and smiling cleverly to himself. He missed this couch.


	5. Chapter 5

**[ Shout-out to Pointy_O's "Purple Pen" :) ]**

 **[ Also, yay Shortaki Week! to nonombre]**

 _"It's all I can do"_

Mr. Simmons walked up and down the tiny aisles between groups of desks, pausing to encourage here and there and to vociferously admire the endless creativity of his students.

The harmony of the room was disrupted when Arnold's characteristically reserved voice rose loudly from near the open window.

"Helga, will you _please_ just let me use them for a couple seconds? I only need to cut out—"

"Oh, please. The last time I let you borrow them, you filibustered."

"I promise, I only need to—"

"No dice."

Mr. Simmons closed his eyes and imagined a field full of bright, happy daffodils waving in the wind. He took a deep breath and turned towards the window to see how many more seconds he could allow this to continue before, God forbid, someone was stabbed.

Phoebe, always the voice of reason, piped up beside Helga's elbow. "Helga, let's look at it practically. You and Arnold are the only left-handed people in our class—surely you two could come to an agreement on how to distribute—"

"Pheebs, as my best friend, you should be unilaterally on my side."

"Hey! Phoebe can have her own opinion, Helga."

"Nobody asked _you_ , Football Head!"

"Chill out, Helga."

"Nobody asked you either, Geraldo!"

Mr. Simmons, meanwhile, was casually making his way towards the window-group under pretense of continuing the circuit.

Arnold suddenly lunged across the table. Both Mr. Simmons and Helga let out terrified and strangled gasps, respectively, as Arnold triumphantly wrenched the scissors from Helga's hands.

Before Helga could jump out of her seat and attack the poor boy, the scissors sailed through the air and flew out the window. A collective horror shattered the air in the room, and several students rushed towards the window to catch a glimpse of any carnage. After a few seconds, Curly stomped back to his seat, disappointed.

Mr. Simmons stepped forward to stand tiredly between them. "Do I even need to say it?" He looked hopelessly at both of their angry faces.

Helga glared at Arnold as she stood, plucked her bag from the floor, and slammed her chair under the desk. Arnold forlornly mirrored her and dragged his feet towards Mr. Simmons's desk, where they each received a hastily scrawled pink slip and turned to walk out the door to their fate.

 _"_ _It's my turn, Helga."_

 _"_ _No, it isn't, Arnold."_

 _She was forcibly yanking on his right arm in the back corner of the classroom. The late bell was about to ring._

 _"_ _You had it yesterday," Arnold insisted._

 _"_ _But you had it two days in a row last week."_

 _"_ _There was a holiday—and you made up for it on Monday, so it doesn't count."_

 _"_ _Give me a break—" Helga grabbed two fistfuls of her own hair._

 _Arnold reached determinedly into his bag. "Do you want to look at my planner? Because—"_

 _"_ _Planner?! You've been logging this in a day-planner?!" She yanked it out of his hands and jabbed at it with a finger, "That's pathetic!"_

 _Their classmates nearest them were starting to look at each other nervously. Iggy was inching his desk backwards._

 _"_ _As a matter of fact, yeah, I have!" He snatched the planner back. "Because you can't remember all the times I gave you—"_

 _"_ _Mr. Shortman! Ms. Pataki! Have a seat!"_

 _Helga fumed. "Mr. Jones, it's my turn!"_

 _"_ _Young lady, if you keep that tone of voice with me—"_

 _Stinky, always one to spot the obvious, spoke brightly from the front of the room, "Hey! Why is it that we only have one lefty desk anyway? Can't we get another one so these two will bury the hatchet?"_

 _"_ _Mr. Peterson," their teacher sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "that is an excellent point, but we've been through this before."_

 _"_ _Yeah, Stinky," Gerald piped up, "Principal Smith already told us that there's not enough room in the budget for more desks. Student Council doesn't have enough funds to cover it either. Believe me," Gerald added in a pained undertone, "I've tried." The bell rang shrilly._

 _Helga took advantage of Arnold's distracted state (and relaxed grip) and ripped him out of the chair. There was a commotion—somehow Arnold's foot got caught around the desk leg—papers flew everywhere—and then—"Enough! A week's detention for both of you, starting this afternoon."_

 _"_ _But—" Arnold protested feebly from the floor. With surprise he realized the hair in his mouth wasn't his own—Helga was squirming (and growling) on top of him rather frantically. He desperately struggled to push her off of him but froze when he realized his hands were pushing at more than just her shoulders. Her angry eyes were stunningly and terrifyingly blue. His own eyes widened in horror._

 _"_ _Mr. Shortman, go sit in that corner. And Ms. Pataki, that corner."_

 _Helga had finally scrambled to her feet to flip the desk back over. Despite their teacher's instructions, she plopped menacingly into it._

 _"_ _I said now!" Mr. Jones shouted, not accustomed to raising his voice above a monotone drawl. "Or do you want me to make you share that desk for the rest of the year?"_

 _There was a shocked silence before Harold initiated the first of several loud, "Oooooooohs."_

 _As soon as their teacher turned, Helga stuck her tongue out at Arnold, who bent to snatch up his planner in a hot rage. Gerald rolled his eyes at Rhonda and stage-whispered, "Tension," a little too loudly, to which she even more loudly agreed._

 _Curly shouted, "Yeah! Why don't you two just make out already?!" before fleeing the room in a mad, howling dash._

 _By the time Arnold and Helga reached their respective corners of the room, engulfed in an entire classroom's worth of embarrassing laughter, both of their faces sported a brilliant fiery shade of red._

He watched her covertly from his table in detention, a diagonal step one over and back, as she let the tip of her snapped pencil sit there, broken, on top of a near-empty page. This was the third time.

He looked down at his own paper, covered front and back with hastily scribbled sentences repentant of disturbing those around him. He glanced at the drowsy teacher at the front of the room. Every so often, her head would droop, but just as often, it would snap up again.

As Helga stared at the clock, a fist—The Five Avengers, Arnold noted—slowly balled up in her lap. He hated watching this.

In elementary school, Helga was no stranger to the pencil sharpener, frequenting the back corner of the room like a poltergeist. Arnold suspected it was to command a better vantage point for target practice against the back of his head, but he could never prove it. Indeed, not too long ago were the junior high days when she made Phoebe sharpen fistfuls of pencils for her so that she would have enough to get through every class.

Helga's body was beginning to tense again—he could see her calf muscle contract—act now, or lose the opportunity. He took a deep breath and reached forward.

When his index finger made contact with the pale skin on her upper arm, he felt it—the surge of something immensely powerful under her skin and then the almost immediate corralling of it into a taut holding pattern. Like a snake, lithe, ready to bite. He was almost afraid to look up into her eyes, but he did anyway.

She was glaring at him so angrily he almost recoiled, but he flattened his palm boldly against her arm and willed it to move. He watched his hand awkwardly pat her arm once, twice, and while her face was frozen in utmost confusion, he reached with his free hand to rummage through his bag. He proffered the spare pen, hoping he'd stalled her long enough with his weird attempt at a comforting gesture.

When she didn't move, he shrugged, grabbed his own bag and stood with all the appearance of readying himself to leave. But before he picked up his own finished paper, he turned completely towards her and wrapped a hand around her wrist—this one attached to Old Betsy. Its fingers opened limply, a reflex like a Venus fly trap. He smiled at her as he set the pen on top of her upturned palm, and then, because she still apparently had no control of her motor functions, assisted her in closing her fingers around it. For good measure, he self-consciously patted the top of her hand a couple times and backed carefully away. _Truce?_

At the doorway, he allowed himself one tiny glance back. She was holding the pen in front of her, its tip pressed into the page, on the precipice of movement. Only when it slid into its first loop of a letter did he turn to leave. _Truce_.

The next morning, he found a piece of notebook paper lodged in the corner of his locker with a simple scrawled message, "I owe you one. –H."


	6. Chapter 6

_"To keep waiting for you"_

"Helga—" he called as he saw her walking down the school steps. "—you coming?"

"To what?"

Arnold sighed and looked up at the gray sky, wondering how she hadn't paid attention to Harold's excited shouting for twenty full minutes. "To the big Halloween movie-fest this weekend. You know, the one the whole gang's been talking about for weeks..?"

"Oh yeah, that thing."

"So…" Dry leaves scraped along the sidewalk.

"So what?" Helga hitched her bag higher on her shoulder.

"You'll come, right?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Come on, it'll be great."

Helga frowned and knocked a heel against the steps. "Why's it so important for _me_ to go?"

"Because we don't have many Halloweens left with all of us together." He added quickly, "And because you're fun to watch movies with." Arnold held his breath and waited, hoping he hadn't sounded too obviously desperate.

"That so?" It was funny how Helga phrased her questions—of course she didn't deny she was fun to be around, but she still had to argue about something.

He was finally learning how to play this game and even steer it effectively. "You sit behind me _all the time_ making commentary." He shrugged. "It's pretty funny." He didn't include that sometimes, if he was really still, he could feel the hair on his neck stir whenever she sighed or huffed in frustration. He would save this gem for later—one could never have enough backup ammunition when it came to Helga.

Helga stared at him, wide-eyed.

Arnold hastily added, anticipating and removing a potential excuse in one statement, "Phoebe's going."

She snorted, "She'll probably be slobbering over Gerald the whole time. No thanks," as if that settled the matter. That was more brazen than he expected, even for Helga—ever since _the incident_ she was always so careful to avoid mention of physical contact when they were alone. She turned, about to walk away.

The words left his mouth in a rush, "You could sit with me instead if you want." He knew his face was likely magenta, but he somehow drew strength from the incredulous look she gave him—she'd had to turn all the way back around to shoot it at him. He continued feebly, "You think I want to deal with their—the—"

"Slobbering, Arnoldo."

"Yeah, that." _Now look who's shy_ … he could hear his Grandpa's triumphant voice in his head. "I'd rather be a third wheel with you than a fourth with Harold, Stinky, and Sid…" Arnold dug a toe into the cement.

"Why, Arnold, I'm _flattered_." She rolled her eyes.

"So you'll come?" He smiled hopefully.

"What girl could say no to such a heartfelt and eloquent comparison of her company to that of a troupe of goofy, mindless, chuckle-headed morons?" She emphasized _morons_ with an exaggerated flip of hair that put Rhonda to shame.

Arnold plowed ahead, "We're all going to wear costumes—"

"Costumes, huh? Say no more."

Arnold laughed. "Great—"

But Helga had started walking briskly away. He'd clearly read this wrong.

"Wait! Where are you going?" Arnold jogged a few steps to catch up with her. "I know you're not too cool to wear a costume. You went all-out with that Ghost Bride prank."

"Oh, yes. I'm a costume _expert_."

"Then what is it?"

Helga growled, speeding up, "The last time I wore a costume on _Halloween_ , I almost died, remember?"

"Oh…" Arnold blushed. "It's not a group costume, I swear!"

She stopped. "And you and Tall-Hair aren't going to set up a disastrous prank that'll put all our lives in peril? Again?"

"Of course not!"

"And Pink Boy isn't involved?"

"Nah. He's probably just going to be a steak again."

"I can't believe he still fits in that thing…" Helga stood there contemplating for what felt like an eternity. "Fine. I'll go. Just quit _begging_ me."

Arnold grinned. "Okay. I'll meet you tomorrow at your place at seven."

Helga narrowed her eyes and pointed at him. "Hey—who said this was a date?"

Arnold was very unsure how to address this question. "Um… nobody?"

"Whatever. You can still buy the popcorn. This was your stupid idea."

"Well, technically, Sid's the one—"

Helga looked impatiently at her watch. "Do you _want_ me to change my mind?"

Arnold was quickly becoming giddy with this exchange, but he tried his best not to show it. "I'll get the popcorn." This was going much better than he expected.

"Oh, and I'll be expecting a cherry slushy too."

He nodded, serious. "Right."

"Don't bother showing up at my house. Just save me a seat. I'll meet you there."

"But—"

"And your costume better be good if I have to be seen with you."

He started to protest, but she cut him off.

"I'll humor you just this once."

"So you _will_ wear a costume?" Arnold brightened.

"I guess I could whip one up," she acquiesced before continuing down the sidewalk.

Arnold called after her, "As long as it isn't as one of our classmates. You're too good—we won't be able to tell it's you…"

"Ha. Funny."

He felt quite proud of himself as he walked home.

Saturday evening arrived. Arnold found himself sitting anxiously in the theater, an enormous bucket of popcorn wedged into the seat beside him, a large cherry slushy in the cup holder. He'd stood at the food counter for over a minute, debating with himself, ultimately deciding to grab two straws. He hadn't put them into the drink yet. Most of the gang liked to split drinks to save money—that wasn't anything new—but somehow this was different.

He surveyed the theater as it gradually filled, and just as predicted, there was Gerald off to the right, an arm already around Phoebe. It looked like Phoebe had spent several hours wrapping Gerald in toilet paper. Arnold didn't envy him, but he supposed Gerald didn't care as he whispered something into his girlfriend's ear that made her giggle. _Slobbering indeed_. He smiled to himself.

"Who you saving the seat for, Arrrrrrnold? Your daaaaaaaaate?" Harold laughed. He was indeed wearing the steak costume he'd owned for years, but it looked very worse for wear. A huge purple stain of unknown origin marked the T-bone, and the seams were torn in several places. Before Arnold could respond, a hand landed on his seat very close to his ear.

"There you are." Helga easily vaulted over the row, deftly lifted the popcorn bucket over her head, and plopped roughly into the seat. As she kicked up her sneakers onto the seat back in front of her, she barked, "What're _you_ lookin' at, Pink Boy?"

Harold gaped. Before Harold got his wits about him, Arnold grabbed the popcorn.

"Not so fast! A deal's a deal. Where's your costume?" He had at least had the decency to don a cape and mask. A fake sword, borrowed from Gertie, slumped against the row in front of them. He surveyed Helga's outfit.

She was wearing an old pink dress, perhaps a little shorter than he remembered, but nonetheless pink, over a plain white t-shirt. She had an enormous ribbon in her hair. She hadn't worn her hair in pigtails for several years, but it wasn't a new look for her by any standard. She didn't even have on face paint. No makeup at all, just like every other day.

Helga swept her hand down the length of her body, ending in a flourish with the white tennis shoes. "I'm the _It_ Girl, moron. Don't you recognize me?"

Arnold had to flip up his mask. As the previews began to roll, Harold turned back around in his seat, perplexed. "I don't get it!"

When Arnold eventually got his breath back and realized she'd swiped both the popcorn and the slushy, he handed her the straws. She unwrapped both.


	7. Chapter 7

_"It's all I can do"_

Helga's bag sat next to her, books and papers peeking out of the open zipper. She fiddled with a spiral notebook in her lap, doodling absently in the corner.

"He just won't stop—" she searched for a safe word "— _harassing_ me."

"Isn't 'harassing' a strong word? He's called you five times."

"It's seven if you count the hang ups and call backs."

"Fine. But that averages to slightly less than one call per month, or zero-point-one-seven calls per week—"

"It's like he _wants_ to talk to me or something, Pheebs." Footballs and initials lined the cramped margins. Deep grooves marked where she'd outlined them again and again.

A tinny, "Perhaps he does, Helga," wound its way into her ear.

"But that could mean…"

"Yes."

Helga eyed a fat squirrel that dared to meander close. It looked like it expected food. "But that can't be possible."

"We've been through this several times with no apparent progress in any significant direction."

"What do you mean? Of course we've made progress—"

"I really do need to go. The belugas are on loan from Underwater World, and I've only got so much time—"

Helga imagined Phoebe pacing in a lab coat, clipboard clutched in hand. She kneaded her forehead. "Yeah, yeah, sure. But Pheebs—I need more information. How many times has he called you again?"

"A few times. But not nearly—"

"See! There's got to be a catch somehow."

There was a sigh and a long pause. Finally, "You know, I could just _ask_ Gerald to _ask_ Arnold if—"

"Too messy. Gerald can't know."

"Helga, this is ridiculous. In all likelihood, Gerald's having similar painful discussions with Arnold. I would hazard a guess that any day now, he's going to ask _me_ to ask _you_ why you aren't responding to Arnold's sincere attempts at communication."

"What has Geraldo told you!?"

"Nothing." Phoebe sounded irritated. "Probably because you two are just about the most secretive people we've ever met and—"

"What do you mean, Arnold is secretive?" Helga's pen was tearing through the top layer of paper.

"I'm not at liberty to say, Helga. Unless you let me talk to Gerald about it. And then he'll talk to Arnold. And then—what on earth am I saying?" Phoebe was probably waving the clipboard in the air over her head. "You two are practically adults now—deal with it yourselves!"

"But Pheebs—" she protested.

"Belugas."

"Fine. I give you permission."

"For what, exactly?"

"To… to see what you can find out from Gerald. But bare minimum detail. No divulgences on our end. Got it?"

"You're welcome."

"Feed old Blubber a sardine for me. And send a picture, why don't ya?"

"Selfie-ing."

Without thinking too much about it, her fingers started to dial another familiar number, but before the first ring started, she abruptly hung up. Talking to Miriam would only make it worse.

Helga punched the buttons again, this time for a less frequently used but still memorized number. It went to voicemail, as usual, per Pataki protocol. After the beep, she spoke quickly, "It's Helga. Just wanted to tell you… that…"

 _"_ _You're such an angry child. And you won't let anyone help you."_

 _"_ _You don't have to tell him right now. You can tell him when you're ready."_

 _"_ _She's just high-strung."_

"…hello. To tell you hello. And thanks for helping me out with my ticket. Phoebe's real excited. Tell Mom school is good. Bye."

She closed her phone and slid it back into her pocket. Her legs dangled over the edge of the bench. It had taken the better part of the year to find a park like this one, just so she could have a good place to think. She watched the new spring grass lining the dirt path sway in the wind for a few more minutes, then jumped to her feet to start the trek back to the bus stop.

She couldn't wait to see Phoebe for a whole week in California. She was ready for a vacation.

"Hey buddy." This sounded quite chipper.

"Hey Gerald! What's up?"

"You busy?"

Arnold scrunched his brows. "Not exactly… I'm working on a paper, but I'm kind of stuck anyway. What's wrong?"

"Nothing… nothing. Just… how's it going?"

"Pretty good, I guess."

"Good, good."

"It sounds like something's bothering you." Arnold wedged the phone in between his ear and shoulder and managed to type a few more words. "What is it?"

"Can't a guy just call his friend and see how he's doing?"

"Gerald…"

"Dammit, Arnold—I was gonna try to gradually work it in to the conversation, but now you've made it creepy."

"Sure. _I'm_ creepy. Come on, tell me."

"Okay. I was gonna ask if you've met any ladies. You know, romantically speaking."

Arnold laughed, incredulous. "You didn't break up with Phoebe, did you? I'm not a very good wingman."

An enthusiastic voice piped up from across the room, "But I am! Want me to talk to him?"

Arnold waved hastily for his roommate to be quiet and switched the phone to his other ear. He gave up on his paper and clicked the save button.

"No! No, definitely not that," Gerald was saying.

"Then why?"

"No reason. Just asking—for a friend."

"Gerald, are you feeling okay?"

"Man, this is stupid enough as it is. Now, don't get weird."

"You think this isn't weird already?"

"Just—here's the thing." Gerald sighed. "I know that you probably know what _friend_ I'm asking for. And that this _friend_ is probably going to talk to _their_ friend about it. And I want to make sure I'm giving them whatever answer is right, to your particular satisfaction. Okay?"

"Hm." Arnold tilted back his chair and looked up at the graying ceiling tiles. "Tell Phoebe to tell Helga that if she wants to talk to me, she has my number."

"Uh… I don't know what you're…"

"She has my number."

"Fine. Right. Will do, buddy."

"Tell Phoebe hi for me too?"

Gerald sounded defeated. "Sure."

"Oh, and Gerald?"

"Yeah?"

"I can't believe this conversation just happened."

"Yeah. Tell me about it."

"See you over the break?"

"Yeah. Checkers on Friday?"

"Sounds good."


	8. Chapter 8

_"It's all I can do"_

The bell tinkled in the afternoon sun as the door swung shut behind him. The air was musty with incense. He felt suddenly claustrophobic as his eyes adjusted to the dim and slightly dusty room. It was certainly warm in here, if not oppressive.

A mystical voice called from the shadows. "Hi there, son. What can I do for you?"

"Hi, um, Madame Blanche?"

"Let me guess, you're here for a love potion." The voice's owner emerged carrying a tray laden with various odds and ends.

The young man shifted from one foot to the other, keeping one eye on the door. "W-well, not exactly—I mean, I'm not sure if—I was kind of hoping to get your advice—"

"Don't worry. I'm not here to judge, sweetheart. Have a seat. Want some tea?"

"No thanks." He looked around and saw a spindly chair wedged up under the round table.

"You sure? I got plenty. Sit, sit."

"Nah, that's okay." He awkwardly sat down and waited as Madame Blanche put down the tray and busied herself making a cup for herself. He caught his reflection in the crystal ball on the table and grimaced at the effect.

"Okay." She turned to sit magnanimously in the chair opposite him, her teacup clinking slightly against the gilded saucer. She coughed harshly and cleared her throat, and he was enveloped in a pungent mixture of clove cigarettes and herbal tea. "Now, tell me a little about the girl you love." She stretched behind her and started selecting a series of weirdly shaped bottles. "Or boy, like I said, I ain't here to—"

"It's a girl," he blurted hastily.

She was setting each bottle down carefully, one at a time, in front of her in a row. "If you say so." She unscrewed the top of one of the bottles and took a quick sniff. "Now, what's she like?"

He hesitated. "I wanted to ask you something first, if it's okay with you."

"Shoot."

"I can't seem to figure her out. As soon as we start to get along… it's just that I have no idea what else to do," he was rambling, "And I've tried. I've really tried!"

"I see." Madame Blanche nodded.

"I mean, well, I don't know how… ethical it would be to give her a potion." He rubbed the back of his neck, staring through the shelves. "If she doesn't… Well, I'd feel kind of bad just—"

"Listen, kid. It's Arnold, right?"

"Yeah."

"Thought so. You're that kid who saved my shop from that crazy corporate guy a couple years back. You're a good kid."

Arnold shrugged sheepishly.

"I used to see you kids playin' ball out there all hours of the day," Madame Blanche looked out her window towards the park. She sighed and settled into business-speak. "Look, I'll tell you what I tell all my more… nervous clients."

Arnold sat up straighter, hopeful.

"If it's meant to be, it's meant to be. But if it's not, it's not the end of the world. Free will is still there."

"But I thought love potions—"

"Let me let you in on a little secret, dear." She began to mix a couple ingredients together. "These love potions are special. They're more like… inhibition-removers, if you will." She took a pinch of some earthy-looking herb that smelled suspiciously like cilantro and sprinkled it once, twice, three times, muttering something under her breath. Arnold watched in fascination.

"So… you're saying if I give this to her…" he paused, apprehensive.

"She'll either continue doing whatever she's doing—meaning she doesn't give a flip about you—or she'll warm up to you—because she _does_ give a flip." Madame Blanche smiled. Her bangles jingled against each other as she stirred the concoction with a delicate-looking glass rod. "Only thing: you have to help it along a little."

"How do I do that?" Arnold was intrigued.

"Simple: You must make sure to be in her presence for no less than five minutes when she drinks this potion. Hand me one strand of your hair, please—no, better make it two, for potency."

Arnold obeyed.

"What does the five minutes—"

She shushed him, then lit a match. The strands of hair blazed up and disappeared into the potion. Arnold crinkled his nose.

"It's a complicated mysterious thing, something to do with pheromones or whatever, so you got to let it take. Trust me." She looked him in the eye, ominous. "Give this to her, and as she drinks it, her inhibitions will melt away. Then you can find out: does she like you or does she just think you're 'meh.' Three drops in any beverage should do it. Got all that?"

"Got it." He carefully accepted the tiny bottle. "Thanks, Madame Blanche."

"No problem, kid. And that'll be ten bucks."

She watched the teen trot happily down the sidewalk and shook her head. When he was gone, she closed the shop door and walked to the back room, picked up the land line, and dialed an old but familiar number. "Hey, Zammy. How you doin'? Yeah, great, great. Never better. Listen—you'll never believe it. The _other_ one finally stopped by… Mm hm. Couple years behind on the uptake... Yeah, that's why I _called_ you, Jones. Geez. Drinks later, my treat."

The next day at school, Arnold pivoted from the end of the lunch line, Gerald close behind him, and made a beeline for the table across the room.

"Where're we going, man?" Gerald asked. "Oh."

Arnold had already dropped his tray on the table, silverware clanking loudly, "Hey Phoebe, Helga." He grabbed the second bottle of Yahoo on his tray, already opened, and set it down with a cold plunk in front of the blond girl. "I got an extra one if you want it."

"Uh… thanks. What gives?" Helga stuck three fries into her mouth.

"What do you mean?" Arnold asked as he sat down.

Helga couldn't have hidden her skepticism if she tried. "Pheebs, what day is it?"

"April seventh."

Gerald laughed. "Want me to poison-test it for you?"

"It's just a thanks for helping me in French today," Arnold sighed. "I think I finally got the hang of those conjugations."

"Oh. Sure. _De rien._ " Helga looked incredulously at Phoebe, but Phoebe was already immersed in her book. Seeming to reach some sort of internal decision, Helga shrugged. "Bottoms up."

Arnold was a ball of nerves, but the deed was done. All he had left to do was watch the clock and wait. Gerald shot him a strange look but said nothing.

After Helga had taken a few liberal swigs and eaten almost all of her burger, Arnold finally had to act.

"So…" He cleared his throat, and turning towards Helga, blurted in a voice much louder than he intended, "Are you doing anything this weekend?"

"Huh?" Helga was midway through her last fry, mouth slightly open. Phoebe's head snapped towards them, but then just as quickly, she turned back to Gerald and began to half-shout bizarre questions about the weather over the noise of the cafeteria.

"Are you busy this weekend?" he repeated slowly.

"I—I—well, I—" _Was it working?_ This was it. Either Helga was going to yell at him and run away, or she'd say… "Not that it's any of your business, but no…"

He smiled. "Remember that favor you owe me?"

"What do you have in mind?"


	9. Chapter 9

_"One too many times I twisted the gate"_

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Helga groaned skyward.

"You said you owed me a favor." Arnold said diplomatically. "This is the favor."

"This is more like three favors." She glared in turn at each of the tenants, who, for their own good reasons, were eyeing her just as suspiciously. "And it's been forever. You can't hoard up favors like old coupons—these things expire."

"That's funny. I didn't see an expiration date—" Arnold reached into his back pocket and pulled out a very crumpled sheet of paper. He held it out, eye level, so that she could see it, but slipped it quickly back into his pocket before she could snatch it out of his hand.

"Geez, you're worse than Big Bob!" Helga folded her arms.

"Lighten up. It's only for the afternoon." He stood still, relishing the spring breeze that washed up over the roof and through the open screen door. Cars honked at each other, stuck on the nearby overpass.

"I hate birds."

"Why do you hate birds?"

"None of your beeswax." Helga scrubbed at the spattered floor, grumbling to herself. She side-eyed the nearest perch with wary disdain.

"Chester's sad because you said you hate him. Look at him, Helga." From the corner he was sweeping, Arnold pointed an elbow. Chester cocked his head equally warily.

"Chester can kiss my butt." Helga didn't turn around.

Arnold laughed and shook his head. "You're going to make Fester and Lester jealous."

Helga's disarming glower was swiftly silencing. "That's sick, Arnold."

"Good, maybe you'll stop calling me Mr. Clean," he countered.

 _The door opened and a veritable menagerie stampeded past her into the street._

 _"_ _Why, hello there, Pataki. Long time, no see."_

 _"_ _Phil." Helga nodded._

 _"_ _Was beginning to think you'd moved on from… this town." Phil tapped the side of her leg good-naturedly with his cane. "Good to have you back. Shortman said to go on up to the roof. Got some sort of surprise waiting."_

 _"_ _Thanks. I'll show myself up."_

Helga shrugged a shoulder in Chester's general direction. "How old are these bird-brains, anyway?"

"Pigeons can live pretty long. You just have to take good care of them." Arnold smiled. "You know, feed them, love them… like with any pet."

"'S that what your old pal Pigeon Man said?"

"Maybe."

Helga wiped her brow, straightening up proudly. "Well, my relationship with my monitor lizard was built purely on mutual respect. None of that mushy stuff."

"You mean you didn't love him—her—it?"

Helga considered it. "It was hard to stomach the frozen mice. I'll stick with respect."

"But mice and rats aren't—"

"They're close enough." She held up a hand to stop further probing. "Close enough."

Arnold reached up to brush some stray feathers from a ledge into a trash bag. "It didn't eat _just_ mice, if I recall correctly."

"Yeah, Nadine and I became pretty good pals for a while—you should've seen the snack selection—" She abruptly changed tack when Arnold grimaced. "Oh… um, about that…"

"It's okay. It was a long time ago."

"Yeah… aside from that… event… he was a decent pet."

"Don't monitor lizards live for a long time too?" Arnold looked genuinely interested. Helga imagined it was because it was probably the only pet not on his daily feeding list.

"Well, this one was already ancient when I got it. Nobody wanted Winston." She brandished the scraper angrily. "He practically lived most of his life in that pet store. He was ugly and mean and…" she repeated slowly, staring off into space, "and nobody wanted him."

"Seems like he was lucky you found him." Arnold paused and thought for a moment. "Wait, Winston, like Winston Churchill?"

"No. Like Winston Smith."

"Hm. Ironic?"

"Hah, you're the only one who's gotten that, besides Phoebe."

 _"_ _Whoa! You sure got tall, missy."_

 _"_ _You haven't changed at all, Potts."_

 _"_ _Touché. Tell your little friend Phoebe that when she gets tired'a all that high-brow academia stuff to give me a call. Brand new addition to the fleet's got her name on it."_

 _"_ _You got it."_

 _"_ _Hey, Arnie's up there. Got some sorta surprise or somethin'."_

 _"_ _So I've heard."_

"What happened… when he… you know…"

"You mean when he went to meet the Big Lizard in the Sky?" Helga snorted.

Arnold watched Helga curiously, "Yeah."

She sighed. "He was in his aquarium. I went down to feed him and… guess he'd just snuffed it in his sleep."

"That's… comforting."

"Yeah—good thing he wasn't curled up in a vent or something." Helga laughed morbidly. "Could you just imagine Bob's face—'MIRIAM?! Did you put the salmon in the laundry room again?' He'd've had a stroke."

Arnold quickly interjected in case Helga realized how much she'd revealed about her mother. "What did you do, you know… afterwards? That lizard was pretty big."

Helga stopped laughing. "Big? Try gargantuan." She squinted and looked over her shoulder quickly. "Don't tell anyone, okay? My reputation depends on it."

"Why would I tell?" Arnold busied himself with the broom, trying to look as casual as possible while sweeping up birdseed.

"I kind of… _borrowed_ Tim's old wagon. You know, the red one with the handle. I slipped Jamie-O a buy-one-get-one beeper coupon and…"

"Oh…" Arnold stared.

"Sheesh—I brought it back good as new. What Tim doesn't know won't hurt her."

Arnold nodded. "She _was_ pretty attached to her Wally doll—could have been traumatizing. Good move."

"Anyway… Olga happened to be in town that week. I got her to help me… with the burial."

"Where—"

"You know where we buried—tried to bury Eugene's goldfish?" Helga was no longer scrubbing the floor. "Turns out, that hole wasn't too hard to re-excavate." Her shoulders slumped.

"Helga—" Arnold gripped the broom handle.

"I just didn't want Bob to… throw him away or something. Winston deserved dignity, you know?"

Arnold leaned back against the rough wall behind him and let out a breath he'd been holding. "I'm sorry, Helga. That must've been hard."

Helga turned, catching him off guard. They looked directly at each other for a moment. The newly setting sun lit the inside of the pigeon coop on fire.

Helga suddenly seemed desperate to change the subject. "Besides," she coughed, "the only animal I've ever had any luck with _love_ -wise was with a monkey." She sloshed a little water from the bucket onto the floor and started scrubbing again.

" _What_?"

"Geez, you're on a roll today." She tossed the scraper into the bucket and dusted off her hands. "I'm saying that monkeys can't get enough of me, for some reason. Every time I go to a zoo, they go wild." Helga wiggled her eyebrows and chuckled.

"This I've _got_ to see."

"Oh, no." Helga shook her head energetically. "No, no, no. I am not going to the zoo with you. We already got that checked off the list a long time ago."

"You've been keeping a list of all the places we've been together? Why, Helga, I didn't know you cared that much." He lowered the bag of feathers to the ground and folded his arms.

"What have I said about flattering yourself?" She glared at him from the floor.

He was watching her in a maddeningly irritating way. "Where else do you want to go with me?"

Sweat beaded on her forehead. "Well… heh, would you look at the time…." She hadn't looked once at her watch.

"Huh?"

"I just remembered—" she scrambled to her feet, "—I'm running late. Really late."

Arnold was distraught. "What're you talking about?"

"Hair appointment. Can't miss it. Already canceled it twice." She was through the screen door, Arnold fast on her heels.

"But Helga—" Arnold glanced swiftly towards the picnic table. Behind it, the sun had sunk towards the edge of the roof. Clouds were lighting up orange, pink. "You said you were free all—"

"I don't know why I let you talk me into this." She was rambling, backing away. "Some favor."

"Wait—"

"I cleaned my half of the coop." She already had one foot on the top rung. "We're even. See you, Hair Boy."

The rapid clanging of her feet on the ladder faded and disappeared. Arnold slumped back against the weathered wooden boards and sighed. After he allowed himself a few seconds of brooding, he dragged his feet towards the middle of the roof.

Just as the string lights blinked on, he reached under the picnic table and picked up the bucket of Yahoos. He shook his head and started dragging his feet towards his skylight. He didn't feel like watching the sunset after all.

 _"_ _What is all this?"_

 _"_ _Hi, Helga."_

 _"_ _I thought you were having me over for dinner with your whimsical family. What gives?"_

 _"_ _Um… well, dinner, yes. Family, not so much. Not tonight, anyway."_

 _The sound of piano music wafted over the tiles, but no one was playing._

 _"_ _You mean, we're not going to get dragged into three solid riveting hours of Parcheesi?" Helga slung her arm in a gung-ho manner._

 _"_ _Huh?" Arnold shook his head to detach his gaze from the moon. "No, I don't think so."_

 _"_ _I'm jerking your chain, Lover Boy."_

 _Arnold impulsively grabbed her hand and pulled her towards him. When his lips eventually left hers, he blurted, "Sorry—I kind of lost myself there."_

 _"_ _Mm." She kissed him again, harder than before, until he had to finally force himself to turn and lead her towards the empty table in the middle of the roof._

 _"_ _So when do you want to tell them?" she asked slyly._

 _"_ _I figured we'd do everything backwards."_

 _"_ _Ah, so you_ are _going to propose."_

 _"_ _Then I'll 'introduce' you to Grandma and Grandpa."_

 _"_ _I see. Better make it quick then. They ain't long for—"_

 _"_ _Helga!"_


	10. Chapter 10

_"When I was crazy I thought you were great"_

Arnold was in a low mood. He shuffled along the sidewalk towards the park, hands buried in his pockets and eyes gliding unfocused along the grimy cement.

What had he done? Was he losing his mind? He felt incredibly guilty, but he was glad to be finished with it.

For months, Stinky and Sid had been taunting the guys about whether they _weren't_ dating yet, and Arnold was their favorite target now that they couldn't faze Harold, who regularly met up with Patti for milkshakes or hotdogs at the pier. "We know you think she's purty, Arnold." "Yeah, you big chicken. Mooning over her like a sick puppy." "Yeah, cluck-cluck-cluck!" "It's bok-bok-bok, dude." "Nuh uh—"

Gerald had warned him, but Arnold hadn't listened until it was too late. It had been a strange day. She'd smiled at him, and he smiled back, and before he knew it, the words had slipped out of his mouth and couldn't be taken back.

Once Arnold emerged from the short-lived afterglow of his meager accomplishment and was struck with a crushing dose of panic, Gerald shook his head and gave him several _hate-to-say-I-told-you-so's_. Arnold spat naively that he could handle it, slamming his locker door and heading off to class.

The day Arnold resolved that the unpleasant deed must be done, he ran his plan by Gerald for peace of mind. Gerald hastily interrupted with a calm, "Are you _crazy_?" and immediately offered up Phoebe as a sacrificial go-between. Phoebe, who had been taking a drink out of the nearby water fountain during this exchange, was appropriately scandalized. Gerald received a hefty piece of her mind for the rest of the day.

It had been cathartic to do it himself anyway. It was also incredibly mortifying, but at least it was honest. He felt a pang when he imagined her shocked face as they walked down the junior high school steps, but it wasn't one of regret. It was almost _exactly_ like the reflexive jolt he got when the wind blew over a trash can—the worst of it was over before the relief set in. _It wasn't like we were meant to be anyway_ , a secret voice in the back of his mind whispered.

He'd made it to the foot bridge. And now he was staring into the icy water, reveling in the insanity that had consumed him. The trees moved darkly in the wind. He had a dull feeling that he knew why he had pursued the relationship in the first place, but rather than fix any of his conflicted feelings, it only stirred at them worse.

"Whatcha doin' out here, you weirdo?"

Arnold almost jumped out of his skin. He whipped around. "Helga?!"

Her face loomed from under its plaid hat. "Karma's a bitch, Hair Boy. Now you know what it feels like, eh?"

"How long have you been standing there?" Arnold breathed raggedly.

She shuffled forward, her shoes scuffling abnormally loudly in the relative quiet of the park. "Long enough to know you've probably had a hell of a day if you're walking around in the freezing cold in the middle of the night."

Despite her hat and jacket, her bare knees poked out below her skirt. Instead of saying, "You should talk," he opted for, "So your day was shitty too?"

"I'm astonished you know that word."

Arnold narrowed his eyes ominously. " _Shit_."

Helga clutched her heart and gasped in her best southern accent, "Ah, me!" She fanned herself with a mittened hand. "We're all goin' to hell in a handbasket."

Arnold barked out a laugh but gradually sobered as he leaned over the railing.

"That bad, huh? What, did ol' Freckle-Face Cute-Hair dump you or something?" She kicked his foot.

"Not exactly…" he sighed.

"Oh." Helga breathed out a long stream of warm air through her nose. "Didn't mean to rub it in."

"It's okay. It wasn't really working out."

"Really? Do tell." She blew into her mittens and rubbed them together. "You know, while it's still fresh and juicy."

Arnold struggled for words, thinking. Finally, "She was so… ordinary."

"Wow. And here we all thought she was trying to lure you into a clever trap."

"Maybe I'm crazy."

"You? Crazy?"

"Yeah."

"You. Crazy."

"Come on. You call me crazy all the time!"

"Sure, but it's not the same _type_ of crazy. You're the type of crazy that wants to sail around the world and commune with the whales and stuff."

"So you mean," he smiled, "you think I'm _interesting_." The word dangled in the air for several seconds.

"Don't hold your breath."

"Then what am I then?" he pushed. "Honestly?"

"Honestly, huh?"

"I can take it." Arnold stood very still, waiting.

"Well, you can be kind of… _impulsive_." Helga leaned back and looked above them at the lamp. He could hear tiny prickling as the fabric of her jacket slid against the concrete. "You have an idea without a plan, get carried away… do dumb things."

He sighed again a little more pitifully and looked down at his feet. "Oh."

"Dumb things like swapping spit with a shallow rocks-for-brains wannabe." Helga nudged him in what he assumed was meant to be a playful kind of way. It didn't comfort him. "For a whole _month_."

"Hey—that's not—we're only _fourteen_ ," Arnold stammered indignantly. "And she isn't… shallow," he continued quietly, the word snagging in his lungs and making him feel even more awful.

"Then she's as dull as a doorknob. Knew it."

"That's mean, Helga."

"We already established she isn't an evil mastermind. Just because you're afraid to call it what it is—"

"But she didn't do anything wrong," Arnold blurted. "And she's a nice a person. I don't understand why it didn't… why we didn't…"

"You think you're crazy because you realized you simply don't belong together?" She seemed to catch herself, shaking her head. "That doesn't make sense."

"Well, we got along… until, well... you know. But that counts for something, right?"

"If you like monotony."

"And all the things she likes… I like them too."

"Not everybody has a thing for rainbows and unicorns, I'll have you know."

He chuckled morosely and squinted out over the water. "Sure."

"Arnold, listen." Helga seemed to be thinking hard about what she was going to say next. "Chemistry's not _chemistry_ without some kind of... passion or flame or whatever. Going through the motions—that's boring."

Arnold thought that this sounded rather mature coming from Helga. He decided to confide carefully, "It did feel kind of… good to get it all out in the open."

"A kind of— _thrill_ —would you say?" So much for mature.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

Helga's mouth clamped shut. He heard the click of her teeth.

"I feel really terrible, though," he admitted. "I said some stuff that I probably shouldn't have. I think I hurt her."

"Hmph. You're speaking to the choir, honey."

Arnold plowed ahead with no idea why he kept telling her these things. "I told her I couldn't… stand her anymore."

"Ouch. Gotta admit, that does hurt, coming from you…"

"Thanks… that sure makes me feel better…" Arnold let his head tip heavily into his hands.

He felt a hand land tentatively on his shoulder. "I've said this before, and I'll say it again: Anyone can be fooled by a pretty face."

There. It was out in the open.

Arnold felt terribly exposed. His mind traveled back to the moment he and Helga stood together, watching another girl kiss another boy and shatter his reality. "Has that…" he mumbled through his fingers, "Has that ever happened to you?"

The solid weight of her hand was gone. Helga was a gargoyle beside him, hunched over the railing. "'Course not. But I have a few—more _susceptible_ —acquaintances that need reminding sometimes."

When he didn't say anything for a while, she continued, very quietly, "Hey, at least you're brave enough to take a risk and give someone a chance, even if it might turn out to be pretty dumb."

He peered thoughtfully at her moonlit chin. The hat blanketed her eyes in shadow. "What are _you_ doing out here?"

Helga snapped to attention. "Something crazy, naturally."

Arnold felt emboldened. "What are you planning?"

Her lips curled slowly upwards. She spun a quarter-turn away from the railing. "Nothing _illegal_ , if that's what you're asking."

He watched her tightrope along the path ledge. "Who is it this time?"

"Let's just say Curly's going to have a couple more reasons to question his sanity." She artfully spit into the stream as she continued down the ledge. "It took not one, not two, but _three_ entire days to get all that gum out of my hair. Peanut butter, ice, toothpaste—" she wobbled slightly as she accentuated each with a punch to the air, "—Miriam practically emptied a bottle of vodka on my head. I swear, you can still smell it—" she grabbed a fistful of the hair that was poking out from under her hat.

Arnold frowned, remembering the chaos echoing off the lockers in the hallway. Helga had won herself a raging week of detention while Curly had gotten away scot-free. He looked wistfully at the moon's reflection in the water. "Can I maybe… come with you?"

Helga paused, balanced professionally, to grin devilishly over her shoulder. "What, no harassment to do the right thing? No, 'I don't think that's such a good idea' or goody-two-shoes speech?"

Arnold was all hers. "Nope."

"Well… I suppose I _could_ use an extra hand. But you don't even know what the plan is yet."

He felt like doing something reckless. "If you already have the plan ready to go, it's not so bad if I _impulsively_ join in, right?"

Helga hopped nimbly off the ledge and started to strut down the sidewalk. "Suit yourself…"

"But isn't Curly's place the other way?" Arnold called as he trotted behind her. He fidgeted with his scarf.

"We're making a pit stop first. I hear Phil has a _fantastic_ collection of fishing equipment."

A slight jolt ran through his veins, or maybe it was just the cold air hitting his neck. "Maybe we should take the fire escape."

"Good thinking, Crazy Boy."

"Helga?"

"What?" She halted. "Time's a-wastin'."

Arnold waited until her eyes met his. He slid his hands back into his pockets. "You're the best. Have I told you that before?"

She opened her mouth, and for a moment he marveled at the honest surprise written there. Then the façade was back, and it was gone. "I typically charge fifty bucks per session, but I'll cut you a ten percent discount just this once." She was already on her way again.

He proffered, catching up to her, "How about some hot chocolate instead?"

"You got any of those little marshmallows?"

"Natch', babe."

"That'll work."

"I'll make some while you make your selection. Just leave the MacGregor Twin Spoon. That one has sentimental value."

"Got it. And if we're gonna work together, lose the jive—you're an embarrassment."

"I don't see anybody else here."

"Don't make me rethink this."

"Would you prefer 'naturalmente,' mademoiselle?"

"I knew this was a crap idea."

"Je suis désolé. Préférez-vous l'anglais, mon amie?"

"Je préfère te fermer la bouche."

"No fair! We haven't gotten that far yet!"

"Not my problem. Look it up."


	11. Chapter 11

_"I kept my renditions of you on the wall"_

 _Sheena looked over at Eugene, who was leaning on one of the peeling hand-rails, breathing hard. "What's that by your elbow?"_

 _"_ _Huh?" Eugene looked down. Curly skated past and leapt into the air, spinning once or twice before gliding around the bend. "Hm. Looks like it could be someone's initials!"_

 _"_ _Oooh, how sweet!" Sheena bent forward, careful to hold onto the railing, and squinted at the scratches in the paint. "That's funny."_

 _"_ _What's funny?" Eugene rotated slowly around, slipping a little, and waited until the rotating light slid across their side of the rink to squint closer._

 _"_ _It's just that I've seen this before…"_

 _"_ _Oh, really? Where?"_

 _Sheena paused to think. "Well, the first time was probably behind the tray cart in the cafeteria… Then I noticed it on a couple of the gym bleachers… And there's definitely one in the big stall in the upstairs girls' bathroom."_

 _"_ _Hmm… that is extraordinary, Sheena." Eugene squinted off into the distance._

 _"_ _Well, if you're going to make fun of me—" Sheena put a hand indignantly on her hip._

 _"_ _Actually, no. What I meant was… I've seen it too. But in the_ boys' _bathroom."_

 _"_ _Oh." Both of them stared at the initials. Red and blue flashed around them._

 _"_ _Do you think—"_

 _Sheena and Eugene shared a long, serious moment._

 _"_ _That's_ too _weird." Eugene laughed nervously. Phoebe and Gerald sailed by holding hands._

 _"_ _You're right. It could be anybody." Sheena smiled._

 _Helga, strapped into a bright pink pair of roller blades, was slouching along the outer edge of the rink, apparently teaching herself how to skate backwards. Every so often she would shoot a furtive look around the room, as if daring someone to come closer._

 _"_ _Didn't Arnie—" Sheena's breath caught in her throat as Lila suddenly slid up to them._

 _"_ _Hi, you two! Your choreography was quite enchanting today. I don't know how you do it!"_

 _"_ _Thanks, Lila!" Sheena beamed._

 _Eugene grinned. "We've been working on the lift for weeks!"_

 _"_ _And Eugene only sprained his ankle once!"_

 _Lila nodded, "Well, you're such professionals that I wouldn't—oh my, Eugene, are you okay?"_

 _"_ _Oh, I'm fine, everything's fine here!" Eugene laughed nervously._

 _"_ _But I'm certain you just had a terrible spasm. Are you sure you're feeling well?"_

 _Sheena glanced down at Eugene's hand. It was covering up the lettering._

 _When Lila had finally been placated and shooed away, Sheena glared at Eugene. "What was that all about? Why are you being so weird?"_

 _"_ _I'm just watching out for Arnold."_

 _"_ _Arnold?"_

 _"_ _Yes, my friend Arnold. Heard of 'im?"_

 _"_ _There's no need to be sassy with me."_

 _"_ _Who you callin' sassy?" Eugene grinned. "Come on." He held out a hand to pull Sheena along with him._

 _The lights swirled around them. Sheena counted 1-2-3-4 under her breath despite herself. "Please tell me!"_

 _"_ _Okay, okay." Eugene slowed to grab onto the railing again. "I just don't want Arnold to get hurt. Remember last time someone thought someone else liked them based on rumors and hearsay?"_

 _"_ _Um, Eugene," Sheena rolled her eyes, "that happens every week."_

 _Eugene put his hands on his hips but had to quickly grab the railing again. "Well, most of the time it doesn't end well."_

 _"_ _But that's the way it is. That's high school."_

 _"_ _Yes, but… I think I'd like to see at least_ one _turn out okay."_

 _"_ _And you've picked_ this _one?"_

 _Across the rink, Arnold glided up alongside Helga, surprising her with a tap on the shoulder. Sheena saw the glare Helga gave him, but then Arnold was already holding her gently by the elbows and steering her along the edge._

 _"_ _Yeah…" Eugene smiled._

 _Phoebe and Gerald sailed by again, supposedly oblivious to the scene unfolding._

 _Sheena yanked Eugene along suddenly, almost ripping his arm out of its socket._

 _"_ _Aaagh! Sheena, slow down!" He wobbled unsteadily from foot to foot, trying to gain his balance, but Sheena was pulling him too fast._

 _"_ _I want to see something, silly!"_

 _"_ _Whoa, okay, okay!"_

 _She slid to a halt three-quarters of a lap around the rink and breathed out, "Oh, my…"_

 _"_ _What?" Eugene was panting behind her, hands on his knees. "What is it?" He lurched backwards as Curly twizzled dangerously past him._

 _"_ _I agree with you, 'Gene." She turned to smile broadly at him. "How are you so good at this stuff?"_

 _He smirked. "I'm sassy, remember?"_

 _Sheena tapped him on the top of the head and pointed at Arnold and Helga. Helga was wearing what she clearly thought was a secret kind of grin, but so was Arnold behind her._

 _Lila scooted up behind Sheena, making the odd couple jump. "You two are ever so sneaky."_

 _"_ _Whatever do you mean, Lila?"_

 _"_ _I have a feeling that you know that I know what you know…" Lila's sing-song voice carried back to them over the thumping disco music._

 _"_ _In your dreams!" Eugene laughed and skated forward. He promptly crashed smack into Curly, who collided into poor Stinky and Gloria, who caught Brainy around the ankle, who sent Park wind-milling into the wall._

 _"_ _Criminy, would you look at these imbeciles?" Helga guffawed as she went past._

 _"_ _Helga, it's Eugene." Arnold mumbled matter-of-factly._

 _She continued just as loudly as before, "Now I remember why I thought this was a bad idea."_

 _"_ _Don't you trust me?"_

 _"_ _Once Jinx Number One goes down, Jinx Number Two isn't far behind—"_

 _"_ _I am not a jinx!" Arnold was indignant._

 _"_ _I ain't taking any chances, Hair Boy." Helga broke herself free and spun carefully around. "Let's go get a soda. You're buyin'. Hey Pheebs! Geraldo! Arnold's generously offered to buy us all a drink!"_

 _"_ _All right! Thanks, man!"_

 _"_ _Hey—that's not—whatever…"_

 _Sheena shook her head bemusedly and bent to pull Eugene from the wreckage. They mutually decided it was time to take a break too._

 _As they perched on the balding carpeted benches, taking off their skates, Sheena whispered harshly, "Hey Eugene?"_

 _Their friends were clustered around the food counter, shouting and laughing._

 _"_ _What?" Eugene glanced at Sheena curiously._

 _"_ _Take a look at that wall."_

 _"_ _Local leagues… what about it?"_

 _"_ _Take a closer look."_

 _"_ _Hm. Is that Helga? In the junior roller derby picture?"_

 _"_ _Looks like she was captain."_

 _"_ _Interesting. Are you saying—"_

 _"_ _Well... they wear skates. So maybe…"_

 _"_ _Huh. Look at this one. Broom hockey too. State champions."_

 _"_ _They wear blades."_

 _"She's always been pretty slick on the ice, now that I think of it..."_

 _"Oh…"_

 _Eugene wiggled his eyebrows. "Now who's sassy?"_

She pulled her hand out of the cramped little P.O. box, astounded that there was actually something inside.

"What's this junk?" she asked aloud. Another student turned to look curiously at her but quickly realized Helga was talking to herself and backed slowly away.

"Yeah, yeah, keep walking." She tore open the envelope. Out peeked something glossy.

What kind of moron sent such tripe?

 _Happy birthday, Helga_

The card fluttered to the floor. Helga glanced around at the students traipsing past before snatching it up and clutching it to her chest. _Arnold_. She should have known.

She ducked behind a corner, not exactly sure why, as no one walking around the building really knew her, to read it.

What was he trying to pull? Did she have to start sending people cards now? Was this expected of her, as a budding new adult? Phoebe never sent her anything, and Phoebe was a model human being. _It's just Arnold_.

She tore the return address off the tip of the envelope and thrust it in her pocket. Two could play this game.

Several days later, Arnold's roommate called over his shoulder. "Hey, you got a box."

"What?" Arnold looked up from his desk.

"Yeah, it's super weird. Looks like a cooler."

"That's funny. I didn't order anything."

"Says you gotta open it immediately."

Arnold began to open the lid but jumped backwards as a powerful scent emanated from the box. Round, shiny wet eyes glittered unblinkingly up at him.

"But… I didn't order anything," he repeated plaintively.

"Delivery for Arnold Shortman," announced a voice from down the hall. A delivery man was wheeling a cart across the carpet. Stacked fully to his height were several more boxes.

"What's going on?"

"Sign here, please. I've got another stack waiting outside."

"But I swear I didn't order this!" Arnold opened the top box and confirmed there were more scaly things inside.

Arnold's roommate plopped down into his chair and let out a low whistle. "I'm from New Orleans, dude. I can take care of them if you want." He snapped his fingers. "We could throw them on the grill and have a party!"

"We probably should. I'd hate to have to throw all this..." Arnold suddenly clapped a palm to his forehead and collapsed into his own chair.

"Man, are you okay? What are you laughing about?"

"Helga. This is definitely the work of Helga G. Pataki."

"That girl you can never get a hold of?"

"Yeah." Arnold watched helplessly as another cart of seafood arrived at the door.

"Nice catch, man."

"Ha."

Several states away, Helga looked at the card she'd tacked to the wall and chuckled to herself.

There was an illustration of a fish jumping out of the water. Inside, big bold letters spelled out: YOU'RE REELY GREAT.

She got another weird look from her roommate, but she didn't care. She was gleefully looking forward to the new voicemail she'd be getting soon.


	12. Chapter 12

_"Where holiday romance is nothing at all"_

 _"_ _It's late—where have you been?"_

 _"_ _Out."_

 _"_ _What, no phone call?"_

 _"_ _Like you guys ever answer the phone…"_

 _"_ _Don't you pull a Miriam on me."_

 _"_ _Don't worry, Bob. I've learned all about the silent treatment."_

 _"_ _So is that what they're teaching you in school?"_

 _"_ _No, it's from my shrink. Remember, I have mandatory appointments with a psychiatrist because of how maladjusted I apparently am—"_

 _"_ _What did we say about—"_

 _"_ _You know what? I don't care. It's bad enough that I have to endure whatever dysfunction goes on around here. I'm not going to let it ruin my life."_

 _"_ _Hey-hey-hey-hey! There are some kids out there without a roof over their head. Your grandparents didn't come to this country to sit on their keisters and whine about how unfair everything is."_

 _"_ _I get that, Dad. I really do. But that doesn't—"_

 _"_ _Really—then how about you start pulling some weight around here and start stocking shelves down at the emporium? You're plenty old enough."_

 _"_ _That's not—"_

 _"_ _That's what I thought."_

 _"_ _That's not what I was going to say. For once in your life, would you please listen to me?"_

 _"_ _Fine. What?"_

 _"_ _What if I_ did _want to earn some extra bucks—what if I'd_ like _to learn more about the business? But you'd never know that!"_

 _"_ _I'm not a mind-reader, Helga. How would I know?"_

 _"_ _That's why families are supposed to talk to each other, Dad."_

 _"_ _We're talkin' now, aren't we?"_

 _"_ _Yeah... I guess."_

 _"_ _Give me some credit—we still got the yurt."_

 _"_ _Don't remind me…"_

 _"_ _So, you want that job?"_

 _"_ _You're just going to give me a job, just like that?"_

 _"_ _You're my daughter."_

 _"_ _Where does that leave Olga?"_

 _"_ _She wasn't cut out for it."_

 _"_ _Oh, I get it…"_

 _"_ _Hey—I'm saying she doesn't have the grit that you do, girl."_

 _"_ _Huh?"_

 _"_ _Olga's good at lots of stuff, but once she hits a wall she can't handle the pressure. Too much like your mom. You're the one who's got the old Pataki work ethic."_

 _"_ _Gee… thanks, I guess."_

 _"_ _That's the difference between us Patakis and the rest of the world—we see something we want and we make it happen, come hell or high water. We're not afraid to go out on a limb and build somethin'. I don't have to tell you that, though."_

 _"_ _That really… is something, Dad."_

 _"_ _You start Monday after school. Three o'clock sharp."_

 _"_ _Okay."_

 _"_ _And next time, call the house if you're gonna be out late. Your mom worries."_

 _"_ _Sure."_

It was Thanksgiving, and there he was, standing at the apex of the little foot bridge.

"Hey, you're home!" He was all brightness and animation in a sea of leafless trees. His jacket was zipped up almost all the way, but she could see his vibrant red shirt collar poking out from underneath. She hadn't seen that color in a while.

"Guess so." She rocked back on her heels a little and opened her eyes a little wider, as if to say, _in the flesh_. "Are you following me or something?"

"Happy Thanksgiving to you too," Arnold smiled.

She wasn't buying it. "I've seen this picture before. So what's your eccentric but lovable family up to this time?"

"Nothing, really. They're behaving this year."

"Then _why_ are you walking around the city when you could be back there enjoying yourself?"

He folded his arms in a challenge and leaned back casually.

"I'll tell you my reason if you tell me yours."

"Who says I need a reason?" She turned abruptly towards the stream and spit over the side. Helga hadn't changed at all.

"Okay, don't tell me." It was funny—maybe he'd wanted to tell her his reason. He twisted slowly towards the water, rolling the side of his body against the side of the bridge. Somehow this reeled her towards him, and she found herself standing next to him.

"The gang wasn't the same without you over the summer."

"Hm."

"What's it like in Alaska?"

"It's big. Really big." She kicked a pebble into the water below. It made a satisfying _plup_ kind of sound. She might have nodded at it.

"Cold?"

She raised an amused eyebrow at him. "What do you think, Sherlock?"

"I just figured there would be a lot to see… you know, like mountains..."

"Sure, there were mountains. What about 'em?"

"How's school?" he tried again.

"Haven't flunked out yet."

He pressed, "You don't exactly have the best voicemail recording. I thought for a while that I'd been calling the wrong number."

Helga's mouth opened and closed a few times, "I don't know what you're—"

He was talking over her, pretending not to hear. "But Phoebe said it was the right one."

She sneaked a look at his hands, at the careful way he had them folded, one on top of the other.

"I—I've been busy." She kicked another pebble. The new ripples intersected the fading ones.

He must have heard this time. "Too busy to talk to your friends? Or just to me?"

"I'm… immersed in a method character."

Arnold looked at her evenly.

"They didn't have electricity during the Salem Witch Trials, okay?" she mimed a phone to her ear. " _You_ of all people should know that."

He sighed a long, patient sigh. Then a slew of words tumbled out in a rush, "I like college so far. I didn't think I would. I already changed my major twice, but I think I might minor in something like music or programming or environmental science…. My roommate said I should become an _arbiter_. Can you believe that?"

When she didn't reply to his waiting pause, glaring stolidly anywhere else, he continued through the list, "I thought I'd be really homesick—you know I love this neighborhood. I worry about my grandparents being so far away. It's still weird not having classes with Gerald. I've missed you." He nudged her shoulder with his.

"Yeah, well…"

"Grandma really liked the postcard. It's still hanging on the fridge."

"Mm." Her eyes slid back towards him carefully.

His were fixed on the water below. "Now it's your turn."

"I… I got nothing."

"Well, once you do have something, maybe you could answer? Just once. Please?"

"I'll… think about it. You know… when I'm done with this crazy workshop…" A nervous laugh slipped out.

Arnold shook his head. "That was a funny one you pulled last semester… my whole dorm had a fish fry."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"Whatever," he said to the purple sky. "Almost time. Want to come to the boarding house for fireworks?"

"Oh, right," she harrumphed drily. "Who can resist the old Thanksgiving fireworks?"

"Grandma always gets the good ones."

"Please."

"This year's are going to be something special." He wheedled, "Black market. Extra dangerous. Someone could lose an arm."

"Quit trying to butter me up."

"Come on, Helga. It's not like you haven't been to the boarding house before…." He gave her a piercing look.

She rubbed her elbow and sighed, "Wanna see if Pheebs and Geraldo want to come too?"

Arnold smiled, a tad too triumphantly, if you asked her. "The more the merrier."

"Lead the way."

And she finally did answer a call from him, a month or two later. To tell him sorry, wind-frazzled and far-away, that she was on her way to dinner with friends. But that she'd catch up with him later… if she thought about it.

And then, several days or weeks after that (but most importantly, at least three more frenzied shouting matches with Phoebe later), she allowed herself to call him back.

The edges of his voice were infinitely more spectacular when they belonged to a set of more than a couple dozen words. It was time to go out on a limb and build something.


	13. Chapter 13

_"You wait in the wing like a Saturday flirt"_

 _She watched them, sick with envy, from the shade of her locker door. He was wearing an old leather jacket and chatting casually with Gerald._

 _"_ _Aye—look who it is, Maria!" shouted a bemused (and, she noted, tantalizingly feminine) voice._

 _Maria clapped a hand to her forehead. "He-ey, if it isn't the niños pequeños locos! Did 'choo get handsome or what!"_

 _"_ _Heh, this one's still a bit of a shorty, huh?" Connie put a hand on a hip and dramatically completed a full survey of the young man standing sheepishly in front of her. "What, you still not eatin' your vegetables?"_

 _"_ _Don't make fun, Connie—he's still a cutie."_

 _Both girls shared a look and laughed._

 _Helga shoved a book into her locker and bit a knuckle._

 _Gerald gave his buddy a jovial nudge and turned to pick up his bag._

 _Arnold was standing there, stammering like a moron, flushed. Helga couldn't bear to watch, but she couldn't drag her eyes away either._

 _"_ _Hey Connie, hi Maria…" His hand traveled from his pocket to slide uncertainly through his hair. His beautiful, glorious, stupid head of thick golden hair._

 _Then he was being led away by a shiny-fingernailed hand wrapped tightly around his wrist, away down the hall, away from her. She couldn't see his eyes, but she imagined they were full of unbridled, passionate lust. How many times must she stand in the shadows as undeserving girls led him away, him trailing after them helplessly?_

 _She made a mental note to find out where Maria's locker was. This new building was certainly a lot more sprawling, but she already had a network of solid allies and spies lined up, starting with Patti._

 _Maria chuckled and steered Arnold towards the cafeteria. At one time, long ago, she thought of Maria as her friend. Then Phoebe had been subjected to torture at this leader's behest. And now her beloved—the traitor._

 _The way the group maneuvered through the hallway with such an air of glamourous effortlessness was causing her vision to blur. Helga could tolerate it no longer. With great exertion, she swiveled her entire body around, ready to shout an improvised insult—anything—to destroy the moment and sway his attention, if only for a few precious seconds._

 _Too late, Arnold had already disappeared from view, pushed head first through the double doors. She could see Gerald shaking his head (also grinning like a buffoon, no doubt) and following closely behind._

 _Connie's voice barely floated down the hall, blending in with the chatter of the cafeteria. "You'se two gotta come sit with us—hey, I want you to meet our friend Simone—"_

 _Maria shouted, "Hey, Simone! Come over here!"_

 _Helga groaned and turned back to punch the cold metal. If she hadn't been busy burning a hole into the back of her locker, she might have seen one of the older girls playfully wiggle a tell-tale finger over her shoulder. Helga's ears blazed at the infuriating, sing-song, know-it-all, lipstick-wearing, "Told you the girls'd be lookin' at you…"_

 _A small voice beside her questioned, "Helga, are you okay?"_

 _The metal door slammed._

 _"_ _Not. Now. Phoebe."_

 _"_ _Oh. I'll… see you at lunch then?"_

 _"_ _Yeah." She clenched a fist. She hadn't forgiven those girls for Phoebe, and she'd never forgive them for this fresh new torment._

 _"_ _I'll save you a seat!" Phoebe, chipper as ever, laid on some extra enthusiasm._

 _Helga remembered the "Thanks," but nevertheless added, "but don't bother."_

 _She was already on her way to the bathroom. She would stay in there for a long time that day._

The two young men walked through the chain link fence and let it swing shut behind them with a rusty clank. Arnold felt the sunlight beating down on his neck—it was the perfect day for a swim. The city pool was crowded, but thankfully not yet completely filled to the brim with people. He breathed in deeply, reveling in the still relatively fresh glow of summer vacation.

"I'll go grab some chairs, Arnold. Here—" Gerald dug around in his pocket, "—can you get us a couple sodas?"

"Sure."

Arnold set off along the edge of the pool, money in hand, towel slung over his shoulder, feeling very confident in himself for no reason at all. That was until he turned the corner and saw who was perched in the tall chair at the edge of the concrete.

If he'd been chewing gum, he would have swallowed it. He didn't know how to recover from the sudden panic that had stopped him in his tracks, but he fought the urge to turn on his heel and forced himself to keep walking towards the young woman.

"H-hey, Helga."

Helga lolled her head towards him, dark sunglasses obscuring her normally penetrating eyes. "Hair Boy. What's shakin'?" The shade of the umbrella cut across her shoulders, making them appear even paler than usual.

"Just uh… Gerald and I were gonna swim for a while. It's a nice day for it and all." He didn't notice Gerald staring at him impatiently from the other side of the pool, spinning a foam football in his hands.

"Yeah, you and all the other geniuses must have had the same idea." Helga gestured towards the churning water. Tens of children screamed and splashed at each other below her feet. The corners of her lips twitched slightly. "Where's your cowboy hat?"

Arnold was watching her twirl her lanyard around her finger, mesmerized, before he remembered he was on his way to the drink machine. He shook his head, "I didn't know you actually wanted to do this for real."

"Well, I'm already certified, remember?" She examined her fingernails. "Miriam blubbered like a baby on my first day—you'd have thought I was going off to the Olympics, for cripes' sake."

Arnold nodded, slightly confused.

"Then it's beepers galore during the week. Turns out, books ain't cheap."

"My one job at Vitello's is hard enough…" He brightened, "So _that's_ why you've been missing baseball?"

"Hey-hey-hey!" Helga shouted from the chair. "If I see you dunk him again, I'll haul you out by the hair and evict you from the facilities!"

"S-Sorry ma'am."

"That's 'Madame Fortress' to you. Get it right." Helga snapped her face back to Arnold and continued in her original relaxed tone, "You were saying…?"

Arnold gulped. "I'll stop distracting you. See you, Helga."

"Yeah, yeah. Just 'cause I know you doesn't mean you get special treatment. I'm watching you, Shortman." She pointed two fingers at her hidden eyes and then pointed them forebodingly at him.

Arnold laughed nervously before shuffling off towards the vending machine. When he finally made it back to Gerald, his best friend was smirking smugly at him. "So, Pataki, huh?"

He narrowed his eyes defensively. "What, Gerald?"

"You owe me an extra fifty cents. I saw you slip her that Yahoo on your way back over here."

Arnold fidgeted with his towel. "She's making sure we don't die. It's the least I could do."

"Don't tell me you didn't relive that Babewatch episode while you were over there _flirting_ with her." Gerald wiggled his eyebrows.

"That was a long time ago—" he ripped off his t-shirt and threw it, a little too forcefully, onto a chair, "—and I was just being nice!"

"I don't know, man… Seems like it was just yesterday that girl was planting a big, wet, sloppy—"

"Gerallld," Arnold groaned hoarsely, "she can probably hear you!"

"Good, then maybe she'll—"

"She can't…" he blurted, "she's working all the time!" then continued, as if to himself, "And we'll all be so far away from each other—I couldn't…" _He couldn't do that to her._

"Come on, you've been dying to get with her and you know it!"

"Stop it!"

"Whatever you say, Lover Boy."

Arnold growled and plunged head first into the deep end.


	14. Chapter 14

_"Protecting the judge, you don't want to get hurt"_

Helga glanced outside her window and absently noted the threatening clouds on the horizon before she hauled her bag over her shoulder and began her afternoon walk to the main campus. She had an enormous paper due by the end of the week but at least had some time to scribble something over lunch. Down two flights of stairs, out the door, along the side-alley, 'round the corner and—

"Oof!" She was met with solid torso and a grunt of surprise. Helga toppled over and was pinned onto her side by her heavy bag. "Hey—you idiot—" She turned her head to glare but quickly gasped, "A-Arnold?! What are _you_ doing here?"

"Hello to you too, Helga." Arnold sat up on his hands. Papers were strewn all over the ground, even more of them wafting down in seesawing paths. He looked bemused. "You don't remember?"

Helga shook her head, confused.

"I told you about the conference last week—"

"Oh yeah, that." She managed to struggle to her feet and hoist her bag once again.

"And I asked you if you wanted to meet up for lunch." Arnold was picking up his papers and cramming them haphazardly into his bag.

"That so?" She glowered at him suspiciously but scraped up a handful of loose charts and graphs to hand to him.

"Yeah. And then you said, 'Whatever floats your boat,' and hung up on me. That, to me, is a huge 'yes' from you."

"How long have you been waiting out here? How did you know where—"

He didn't seem to hear her. "What's good to eat around here? I'm starving." He snapped the flap closed with a finality that unnerved her.

Helga blinked. "You like pastrami?" She said it almost like a dare.

"Sure. A sandwich sounds good." Arnold relaxed slightly. His face looked familiar and strange all at once. His hair was a little shorter than she remembered, but it was still as messy as ever. A strong desire to find out if it still felt wonderful sliding through her fingers seized her, but the curious way he was staring at her snapped her back to reality.

"You don't have a choice anyway." She turned and began to walk away from him without a backwards glance.

"Helga." The blond young man jumped nimbly in front of her.

"Who said you could touch me?" she demanded as she felt arms slide around her.

"Sorry." He pulled slightly backwards to look her in the face. "May I hug you, childhood friend that I haven't seen in forever?"

"We Patakis don't _hug_."

"Huh, that's really contradictory—considering your commitment to theatrical integrity—"

She didn't push him to the ground, but she did do her best to cut him off. "I thought you were hungry." She tried to lean away, pulling him slightly with her. "I ain't got all day. Got a class at two. Move."

"It's just a hug, Helga." Helga's eyes almost rolled back into her head as he wriggled against her. "I flew all this way—"

"For a dopey conference."

"I'm waiting." She could feel his breath glance off the side of her neck.

"Don't make me deck you. Remember, I know jiu jitsu."

"So? I know kung fu."

 _What the hell_. "You have three seconds." Her hands tentatively met around his back. A sort of bliss radiated to all her limbs, and she let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Too soon, he released her and struck up an innocent chat about the weather.

The sandwich shop was tiny and cramped, but he wished he could have eaten there twice with her, if only to hear her continue the game she'd invented for herself:

"See that guy in the trench coat? He's a hit-man on the lookout for his next kill. He's been hunting for months but doesn't realize it's old Tony right here in the shop he's been lookin' for…." She paused to slurp her lemonade loudly. "Tony's got his order ready for him on the regular before he even walks in the door. Once he discovers it's Tony, the hit-man changes his order to a tuna-melt to stall him but—plot twist—dies from food poisoning." She crunched a few chips and pointed. "That broad's in love with her sister's husband, but since she can't do anything about it, she slowly goes crazy by inventing a double fantasy life—she even invents a beau that's off at war. That's why she wears those earrings—says he gave them to her before he left, but they're actually hand-me-downs from her sister." She grinned at him. "Pick another one."

Arnold rested his elbows on the table, chin in hands, listening. "What about me?"

"Nah," she shook her head, "that story's too lame."

Arnold cleverly tried again, "Then can I do yours?"

"That depends. Would you like to schedule your interview with Old Betsy or the Avengers?"

The air crackled with electricity as they emerged onto the sidewalk.

"Do you actually write all these down?"

Helga elbowed the crosswalk button. "A few of 'em, yeah. Most of them just stay in the old noggin." She tapped her forehead for emphasis. "Nine times out of ten, they're garbage."

"Oh. That sounds really tough."

"Well, Agatha says it's normal."

"Agatha…?" They loitered on the corner, waiting for the signal to turn.

Helga leaned against the pole. "How many Agathas do we know?"

"You mean…" his jaw dropped. A bicyclist whizzed by, a cloud of gravel and dust swirling behind. Coughing profusely, Arnold could hardly watch where he was going as they started across.

"Yeesh, calm down, Sparky. I wrote to her a couple months ago."

"I thought she doesn't have an actual address. How did that work?"

"Long story short, it was a pain in the ass. First, I called up an old friend at the Office of Information—"

Arnold cut across her, suddenly keen, "Is your friend, by any chance, Mr. Bailey?"

Helga didn't seem to hear him, continuing loudly, "—no dice there, so I had to send it off to Sheena who hand-delivered it to old Earl. Bribed him with a fresh set of lures so he'd motor it out. Really didn't expect anything back, to be honest."

Arnold still seemed to be pondering her process. "What did you write her?"

"Eh, I asked if she was interested in being a, well… a _mentor_ of sorts. Sent her a copy of my manuscript."

"Really?" Arnold's eyebrows were sailing off the top of his head. "What did she say?"

"What is this, twenty questions?" Other students weaved in and out of their path. "She said to leave her the hell alone, obviously." Arnold was almost double-timing to keep up with Helga's breakneck strides.

"Oh…"

"Don't worry. There was a _generous_ postscript." She held up her hands, an invisible stack of papers sandwiched between them. "Grouchy old bird doesn't fool me."

Arnold laughed. "So are you going to follow her advice?"

"Might as well. Damned if I do, damned if I don't." Her hair blew about her face, whipped by a fresh gust.

"That's a pretty negative way to look at—"

"Arnold." Helga stopped cold and poked at his shoulder. "She literally printed that in all caps at the end of the whole thing."

"Mm. She's really something else, isn't she…"

Helga eyed his knowing smirk but turned quickly away. She pointed down the street. "Your chariot has arrived, Cinderella." The bus lumbered towards them along the curb.

He glanced up at the tossing branches overhead. "Sorry I can't stay longer. It'd have been nice to treat you to a movie or something. Can you believe they're still making Evil Twins?"

"Tell you what," she shrugged, "I'll take you up on it next time we're both back home. There's bound to be another one by then."

Arnold sounded rushed, "I can call you when I get back."

"Do what you want. It's your life."

The bus door screeched open. Arnold stared hard at it.

Thunder rumbled and shook the sky. The rain began to fall in cold heavy drops. They stood there awkwardly for a few seconds.

The bus lumbered off again. He'd catch the next one.

She hadn't expected him whisking out a crumpled umbrella and insisting that he walk her to her class. Helga's toes were still tingling by the time he gave her a second hug goodbye. And this time, he kissed her cheek.


	15. Chapter 15

_"Once in a moment it all comes to you"_

It was seven in the morning.

"Arnold, it's time for your first lesson!"

"Grandma, do we have to?" It was seven in the morning, after all.

He shuffled downstairs. Most of the boarders were still snoozing.

"This is one of the most important things you'll ever learn, Kimba." Gertie scraped scrambled eggs onto his plate with gusto.

"Listen to your Grandma, Arnold." Phil was finishing a hefty slice of bacon. "She's the expert. Wish I could stay, but I've got pressing matters to attend to in my office."

Shortly, a door slammed somewhere in the house.

Gertie was rooting around in a dusty crate she'd hauled into the parlor. "Ah, here it is."

She reverently bequeathed the album to her grandson, who stood there perplexed.

He sounded each word out carefully. "'Ballroom Dancing Music for Beginners'?"

"Yep! We're gonna learn 'em all!" She was throwing back the curtains and opening the windows.

"But Grandma… when am I ever going to need to _ballroom_ dance? You already taught me how to twist!"

Arnold demonstrated his skill. The rug was already rolled up and propped against the wall. The time-smoothed floor felt extra slippery through his socks.

"Various occasions do actually exist in which you must put these skills into practice." She put her hands on her hips. "Ever heard of prom?"

"But that's all the way in high school!"

"Oh, there'll be plenty of shindigs long before that too." She gave him a sly look. "You never know when you might need to ask a young lady to dance."

Arnold knew there was no use arguing about young ladies. "Okay, fine… what do I do?"

"Well for starters, throw that record on!"

Arnold, long entrusted with the sacred responsibility of operating the record player, carefully lowered the needle. A fast-paced tune blared into life.

"Ah, we'll need the roof for the quickstep…" Gertie fiddled with the needle for a moment, nodding satisfactorily when she found the spot she was looking for. "Better start with the waltz."

Arnold, a good deal shorter than Gertie, stood awkwardly looking up at her. "Now what?"

"Close your eyes. Listen to the music. Feel the rhythm."

"It's nice." He considered slowly, "It's not jazz, but I like it."

"Good. Let your feet do their own thing for a minute."

Arnold stepped side to side hesitantly.

She threw her head back and stretched her arms to the sky. "Let yourself be free to move however you feel."

"Like this?" He wiggled a little more bravely within an imaginary two-foot radius.

Gertie snapped her fingers. "See, you've got natural rhythm in your bones, Kimba!"

Arnold, the impressionable six-and-a-half-year-old that he was, glowed with this newfound realization. "Really?"

"Now take hold of this hand..." They began to move around the room, letting the music carry them and paying no heed to their feet or technique whatsoever. It wasn't time for that yet. "Now you're gettin' it!"

"This is kinda fun!"

"Just wait until _you_ get to lead!"

 _"_ _Go dance with her," huffed the girl in his arms._

 _"_ _What?" Arnold blinked._

 _"_ _Come on, Arnold. You know you want to."_

 _"_ _I don't know what you're talking about, Tim."_

 _"_ _Yes, you do."_

 _"_ _No," he was emphatic. "I don't."_

 _Timberly sighed, "It's okay. We're here as friends, remember?"_

 _"_ _But I thought you wanted to—"_

 _She spelled it out for him. "I'm going to go ask Park to dance. He looks like he's having a boring old time. Now you're free to go ask Helga—" she was pushing him now, but he dug in his heels to the slick floor._

 _"_ _Helga?"_

 _"_ _Yes, Helga! H-E-L-G-"_

 _"_ _I know how to spell her name, thanks, Tim. And," he added in an indignant whisper, "she wouldn't dance with me anyway."_

 _"_ _Oh yeah?" Timberly's face lit up with the same glee that he'd seen when he'd casually asked her to come along with the gang on his stop by Gerald's house on Tuesday. It was uncanny how much she looked like her brothers, and Arnold was strongly reminded of the maniacal monster that was unleashed whenever Gerald devised some new business plan._

 _"_ _N-no—don't!"_

 _It was too late. "Yo, Helga!" she shouted, interrupting whatever Helga was guffawing about to Phoebe and Nadine._

 _And then Helga was floating towards them. Well, not floating, exactly. While their classmates might have used that word owing to that twirl of a dress, Arnold could see the lingering trace of a stomp in her gait that was almost masked by the heels she was wearing._

 _They were beautiful heels, and she was—he had to admit—almost statuesque. The last time he'd seen her, she was smeared with mud and wearing her trusty old sneakers. The bathroom was only a few yards away. Maybe if he could just—_

 _Timberly and Helga were talking now, standing hardly a foot in front of him, but Arnold couldn't hear a thing over the blood throbbing in his ears. He knew by the jerk of Helga's thumb it must be about him. Then Timberly's vice-like grip was pulling his arms towards an astonished-looking Helga, and now they were fused together, swaying to the slow music flooding around them._

 _Lights swept through the room in time with the rhythm from the speakers. He cleared his throat. "So…" Cool. Yeah, right. "Are you… enjoying the dance?"_

 _Helga cut across his pathetic attempt at small talk and got straight to the point. "Look, you can thank me for the favor later. I'm only doing this for Timberly—you're bugging her."_

 _"_ _Why, I'm enjoying it too, Helga. Thanks for asking." He rolled his eyes._

 _"_ _I didn't even want to come to this thing. But Phoebe said I'd be missing out on the time of our lives. You know Phoebe."_

 _Arnold swallowed hard. "You don't have a date?"_

 _"_ _What do you think?"_

 _"_ _Oh… I thought…" There had been a terrible misunderstanding._

 _"_ _What?"_

 _Timberly had at least two more of these she could have gone to. He felt something inside him sink a little. "Nothing."_

 _Soon, the song ended, and he watched her stalk off towards the bathrooms before drifting aimlessly towards the punch table himself._

 _He would have asked her._

The music was loud, bouncing against the walls of the house. The air had been rather warm during the day, but the evening dimmed to something wonderful once the sun sank behind the skyline. The last of Rhonda's last-day-of-spring-break parties was underway, proving to be a great success, if she did say so herself.

Gerald peeked out of the nearest rattling windowpane. He pulled Phoebe a little closer and spun her around so she could get a good view. She giggled as she danced against him. On the balcony, two figures were sitting across from each other at the wrought-iron table.

"Babe, you're an evil genius."

"I had some help, didn't I?" She wiggled her eyebrows, a new mannerism she'd picked up from him recently.

"You know they can't resist a challenge." Both of them sent a nod over to Patti, who was catching up with Lorenzo and Sid. Gerald gave Phoebe one more twirl. "I'll be right back with some snacks—so we can watch."

"Oh, what a terrific idea! I'll procure the chairs."

The patio was relatively quiet compared to the thumping leaking through the sliding glass doors. Arnold was telling Helga something pertinent to the game, but she wasn't quite comprehending the strategy yet.

"You're smart, you can figure it out." He took a sip of his drink. He'd long since loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves.

"I don't know why I agreed to this." She mirrored his action. A cloud slipped past the moon. "Waste of time."

"You weren't so high and mighty when we played pin-the-tail-on-the-monkey that one time."

"Well, yeah, but you suck at _that_ game."

"Hey! No I don't!"

Helga picked up a worn wooden piece and rolled it thoughtfully between her fingers. "Learn to recognize a backhanded compliment when you see one, dummy."

"Oh. Thanks… Here, I'll try one." He cleared his throat and lowered his eyes, studying the board. "Green's not your best color."

Helga's hand spasmed slightly. "Heh. Really? What makes you say that?" She glanced down at her dress, silently cursing herself for the frivolous purchase.

Arnold dodged her would-be casual query with a confident, "I wouldn't move there if I were you."

She nodded carefully, noticing the problem, and pulled the piece back towards her. "How'd you get so good at this game again, anyway?" Helga leaned an elbow on the table. "Never mind, your—"

They both said "grandparents" at the same time. A slower song began to emanate from the house.

"Is there anything they can't do?" She rolled her eyes and her free hand lazily around its own wrist to match.

"Let's see…" Arnold began ticking off a list: martial arts, camping, triathlons, fishing, horseback riding, boating, astronomy, forensics, archery, and at some point either or both had a valid pilot's license. "Anything missing?"

"Elizabethan poetry?"

"Hah. Good one."

"That's me, the bastion of hilarity."

"I've missed you, Helga." He moved his queen.

"What else is new?" She fiddled with her knight. The movement offset her typical drawling nonchalance with a hint of uncertainty.

"I'm serious." He sat back in his chair with his hands folded across the front of his shirt, one thumb steadily circling the other, waiting.

"All right, ditto. There, happy?"

"You're just saying that because you feel sorry for me." He made another move without even looking at the board. He'd already won.

"Yep. Nail on the head." She laughed nervously. "But then, you're the one who signed up for extra school."

"Must be why you're letting me win this game." His rook slid forward, toppling her bishop. His hand caught it swiftly before it rolled over the edge of the table.

"You got me… I'm a secret chess whiz. But your ego is so precious I didn't want to crush your spirit." The song finished, and another slow one eased into its place.

"You sure are generous." An unseen toe gently nudged her shoe. It might have been an accident.

"I-I do my best." Helga gripped the pawn she was holding.

"Okay, then let me show you where to move next." He grabbed her hand. Nobody caught the pieces that toppled towards the ground this time.

Back inside, Gerald's mouth dropped open. Phoebe was punching him multiple times in the shoulder, hard. "Ouch, quit! I see it, I see it!"

"Quick—" she grabbed his arm, hauling him from his chair, "—cause a diversion! We can't let anybody go out there—not yet!"

"Yo, Curly! Play that new hit—Phoebe and I are gonna teach you guys a thing or two." He pulled Phoebe towards him by the hand and began a complicated dance step.

Neither Arnold nor Helga were usually happy with a draw, given their competitive natures, but this time it wasn't so bad. They continued to dance slowly despite the quick tempo dance tune that churned behind the glass.

Arnold was saying, "Can you believe Rhonda had that article turned into a plaque? I wonder how expensive it was to do that."

Helga rolled her eyes. "Let the dork have her day. I mean, _my_ ears are impeccably flawless, but I'm always too busy to enter them into inane beauty—I mean— _scholarship_ pageants." From the outset of the party, Rhonda had worked her way around the room, self-deprecating as she showed off the diamond earrings she won for first place. "I, unfortunately, have infinitely more important things to do than parade them around."

Harold's fourth-grade voice sprang into his mind— _big, dumb, billy-goat ears_ —and without warning, Arnold's hand left Helga's warm waist of its own volition and traveled upwards. She hadn't seemed to notice as they swayed back and forth. Not yet.

"Really?" He watched his own index finger begin to trace the shell of her ear.

"Well I—" Helga all but froze. _What was he doing?_ " _What_ are you doing?"

"Just seeing if it's true. Wow, Helga, you're right," he nodded, convinced. "They are nice." And then his hand was firmly back on her waist, the material of her dress crinkling pleasantly under his palm.

"I—yeah. That's—that's right." She shook her head, dazed. "And—don't you forget it!"

He continued, taking advantage of her momentary confusion. "You're especially nice tonight, too."

Her posture tensed—a meld of wariness and something else. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know. You," he spun her, "dancing with me."

"Oh yeah, yeah. That. You know how I can't stand pitiful desperation."

"Yeah, why else would a beautiful woman like you want to dance with a poor sap like me?" He gave her hand a good-natured squeeze as he carefully guided her further away from the door. Gerald was giving him an exuberant thumbs-up (behind Phoebe's head) that he did not think beneficial for his partner to see.

"Exactly…" she slowed—his words had just been processed. He adjusted his steps and pressed his hand into the small of her back to continue their momentum.

Helga's voice was brittle steel. "You know, it only works when I'm the one making fun of me, Arnold." She used his name. That might be a bad sign.

"What, that I agreed with you?" He threw caution to the wind and smiled, "About you being… an attractive person?"

The words floated, free, between them. He had been waiting to say it aloud for years, but it never felt right walking home after a sweaty game at the ballpark or when their friends were hovering within earshot. Certainly it was too difficult to say over the occasional late-night phone call laced with frustrated complaints about thesis papers and ignorant professors.

She squared her body and tried to look towards the doorway. He felt himself stand a little taller out of habit, matching her stance, blocking the view.

"I thought you were being sincere," he persisted. "So I was being sincere too."

"Me—" she scoffed, "—sincere? I just compared myself to Her Majesty Ms. Beauty Pageant Princess herself! Are you nuts?"

"I don't think about Rhonda Lloyd like I think about you, Helga Pataki." He shrugged before he realized what a bold statement he'd just made. He almost lost his grip on her hand for the film of sweat that erupted from his palm.

"Oh really, and how is _that_?" she demanded.

He had a choice. Run away or risk it all. He decided to risk it. "Like..." And then he dipped her. He finished her trajectory by pulling her much closer to him than she'd been before. "…this." One of her hip bones was now brushing against his. They weren't aligned exactly, he noted, because she was taller. But he didn't really care. He wondered what it would feel like if she weren't wearing any shoes.

"T-this?" Helga never whispered, but she was now.

He tilted his head to the side. "Yeah. This." He gazed at her and waited.

"This is… okay." She rolled her eyes. If he hadn't sensed the betraying ghost of a shiver, she might have been convincingly blasé.

"That's good." He turned her towards him a little more with the slightest pressure. This time he could feel both hip bones as they swayed. "Okay is good."

"I mean, I could _live_ with it, I guess." The dusting of pink across the bridge of her nose was spectacular.

He breathed close to her ear, "Fine by me."

"You wanna… dance another one?"

"I thought you were the one doing me favors?"

"We'll take turns."

"Oh. Sure. How do you say it—" Arnold leaned back, scrunched a brow, and lamented, "—I _guess_ I could do you a favor."

This time she poked his shoulder. "Impressions are my territory. Stick to what you're good at."

"Speak for yourself. You should hear my Phil Shortman. It's pretty impressive." He looked at her evenly. "So what's the favor you'll do for me next, then?"

"Maybe I'll… let you walk me home, for old times' sake."

He shrugged a shoulder and pretended to think about it. "Sounds doable."

"Your turn."

"Um… I'm not sure. Can you give me some time to think of one? It's only fair."

"If anything, I'm fair."

"You? Helga Pataki, playing fair? This I've _got_ to see."

"Are you trying to sound like Geraldo?"

"Don't let him hear you say that. He might think you're flattering him."

"Helga Pataki doesn't flatter," she stated.

"Arnold Shortman doesn't either," he smirked.

"You don't get to talk about yourself in third person." Her grip on his hand tightened.

"Arnold Shortman doesn't care." He leaned inward slightly, denying her the opportunity to lead.

"Arnold Shortman's going to get his butt kicked." Her nose was almost, just barely, touching his.

"Careful, Pataki, I'm still a black belt." His already hushed voice dipped lower. "If you're as fair as you say you are, you can't get out of fighting clean now."

"Fine. You win." Who was this soft-spoken creature? "You should've become a lawyer for real."

"I audited a few classes," he whispered. "Too depressing."

They were so entwined around each other that Arnold's heart almost failed when Sid ripped open the sliding door and bellowed, "Hey guys! After-party at Lorenzo's!" and a hearty, "Hubba-hubba!" before slamming it closed again.

"I—I—" Helga was clutching at her chest several feet away.

"Helga—I—"

"Bathroom…" Frantic footsteps staggered towards the house.

An hour later, Arnold sat tensely on the suede couch, waiting. There were cups and plates strewn across the room, abandoned by the guests filing out to head off into the night. Rhonda was nowhere to be seen—maybe she'd gone with them.

As soon as the woman he was waiting for emerged from the narrow hallway, he leapt up.

"Took you long enough."

Helga whirled wildly around. "W-what—where—" He watched her glance nervously around the empty room as if she were looking for somebody.

"Phoebe left with Gerald." He neglected to mention their telltale faces as they'd sauntered and swaggered their way triumphantly out the door. "I'm walking you home."

She folded her arms.

"Old times' sake, remember?"

"Oh. Right." She nodded slowly, then bolstered herself, businesslike. "You… you thought of yours yet?"

"Not yet."

"You know, your window of opportunity is closing here. It's only a few blocks to my house."

"I think I'll have an idea by the time we get there."

"I guess I can work with that."

"You sure you can walk there in those shoes?"

"Sure as my name's Helga G. Pataki."

He tossed his jacket over his shoulder. "After you."


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes:** Hi all! This is a relatively short one, but it's the second-to-last chapter and the next one's pretty long (and hopefully will make up for it!). Thank you so much for reading so far and for all of your thoughtful feedback along the way!

 _"As soon as you get it, you want something new"_

 _"_ _I think I… might… like-you like-you."_

 _"_ _Oh really? You don't say."_

 _"_ _Just a little."_

 _"_ _A little, huh?"_

 _"_ _Well… maybe a lot."_

 _"_ _Keep goin'. I got all night."_

 _"_ _Okay. I like-like you more than a whole lot."_

 _"_ _You've got to be kidding me."_

 _"_ _Oh… are you saying you…"_

 _"_ _Pinch me, I'm dreaming."_

 _"_ _Helga, get off the chair, you're going to fall—"_

 _"_ _Don't tell me what I can and can't do on my furniture, you little shrimp!"_

 _"_ _Helga—"_

 _"'_ _Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo?'"_

 _"_ _Come on! Cut it out!"_

 _"_ _Play along! I've waited years for this."_

 _"_ _Get down from there."_

 _"_ _Come here and make me."_

 _"_ _I'm not afraid of you. Hey! Watch it!"_

 _"_ _Ha! Careful what you wish for."_

 _"_ _You're heavier than in elementary school…"_

 _"_ _Giddy up—"_

 _"_ _Ow! That's my hair! Oh—"_

"We've got to talk about the elephant in the room, Helga." Arnold ran his hands over his face and breathed out through his nose.

Helga made a groggy and noncommittal noise, which he took to mean she was listening.

"You know I'm… leaving the country soon. It's not permanent, but… I'll be off the grid for a lot of the time."

"Yeah. And?" She was opening and closing cabinet doors.

"I'm not happy just being…" Arnold shuffled his bare feet. "Don't get me wrong, I love you." It felt wonderfully strange to say it aloud.

"What more do you want?" Helga yawned distractedly. The early sun streamed through the tiny window and warmed a patch on the kitchen tile.

"For you to marry me." Arnold grimaced and braced himself.

"Oh." She was standing on her toes, rummaging around in the uppermost cabinet. When that didn't work, she yanked a chair towards her and climbed up on the counter. "Well, why didn't you say so?"

He found he could appreciate her in a bath robe for the rest of his life. "It's just that… we've known each other all our lives. And we've waited this long."

"Uh huh," she yawned again and grumbled something about coffee.

"And we already know that we're meant for each other."

"Sure." The cabinet muffled her voice slightly as she reached deeper.

"And you sort of already… proposed to _me_ … several times… last night…" Arnold rubbed the back of his neck and glanced shyly at her.

"Semantics." She bumped the top of her head on the shelf and cursed loudly.

"I mean, Gerald let it slip that they've been betting on us to… just elope or something anyway."

"Psh. Those clods. I know it's in here…" All he could see of her head now was a cloud of tangled golden hair.

"From what I just heard, Harold has three _hundred_ dollars on the sex of our first child." He slid his fingers anxiously through his own hair.

"Pink Boy hasn't changed, I see…."

"And it might make it easier—you know, traveling—um, not that it really—"

"Eureka!" Helga emerged triumphantly from the depths of the cabinet with a box of instant pancake mix. "Knew it was still in there."

"Helga, I don't think you're listening to me. Did you hear what I said?"

"Loud and clear." She saluted lazily with a flick of her wrist to nothing in particular and slid off the counter. She shuffled toward him and reached for the spatula in the jar on the counter.

"So you're fine." He leaned back against the stove and folded his arms, blocking her from the frying pan hanging on the wall. "With marrying me. And coming with me to Argentina. Just like that?"

"Why not?" Helga eyed him sleepily.

"I mean…" Arnold proffered, "If you wanted me to do it properly with a ring… I _technically_ have one, but I'd have to ask—get it from the boarding house. Are you sure you don't want—"

"Hey, I didn't get you one either. Fair's fair." She nudged at him with the corner of the box and the spatula, trying to get him to take them, but he didn't budge.

"Okay… then how about tomorrow?" Arnold deadpanned. "I can call Eugene. I think Sheena officiated his wedding—he probably has her number."

"Tomorrow's busy. It'll have to be today. Now hold these."

"Okay." A slow smile crept across his face as he dazedly accepted the spatula. "Today it is. Helga? Helga!"

 _THUD_.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes:** Thank you all so much for sticking with me through this story and for all your wonderful feedback! I hope you enjoy this final (and my favorite) chapter. :)

 _"It's all I can do"_

Arnold craned his neck curiously at the shelves behind him for lack of something to do but twiddle his thumbs. His glass of wine was sitting on the coffee table, mostly untouched. It was nice wine—French, probably—but he wasn't much of a drinker. He decided to save most of it for dinner.

Of course, he knew the woman read a lot—he'd gathered enough from the allusions and well-if-you-don't-know-I-won't-tell-you brand of lofty condescension surrounding them over time—but he didn't realize she listened to such a large volume of music. He'd always had the impression that Helga wasn't that picky about what she listened to as long as it was loud and thought-drowning. That on its own was a paradox of sorts—she had such a lot of thoughts, and when she was in the right mood, she liked to make them known.

Drawn into this new mystery, he found himself standing from his chair and cautiously moseying towards the book case with the pretense of perusing the sparse frames on the wall. He studied an aged-looking print. _Edward Hopper…? That doesn't sound like Helga._ He'd always pictured her as a Dali or Pollock connoisseur—either awash in abrupt and mad symbolism or dwarfed by the blank gaping opposite of it. He'd have to figure out a clever way to ask her about it without it sounding too… intimate.

There weren't any pictures of her family, save for an old dingy one from possibly high school in the corner. Of course, she didn't exactly look full to bursting with elation in it, but Helga never smiled in formal photographs, not even for their school yearbooks. There was a frame holding two snapshots with no recognizable people in them—a stunning image of a great mountain range covered in snow and a high-up view of what appeared to be Paris. He remembered how hard she'd worked to conceal her excitement when she'd gotten accepted into the program last summer.

It was tough not to make noise with the slightly fancier shoes than he usually wore as he tiptoed the few steps across the creaky hardwood, but fortunately Phoebe and Gerald were buried in conversation on the shabby purple love-seat. He glanced at them almost guiltily before turning back to peer into the shadowy shelves.

 _It seemed like she'd expected his call, although she did feign surprise pretty well once she recovered. Nothing new there; he was used to it by now._

 _"_ _I do this kind of stuff all the time." He could hear her practiced indifference. "Trust me, this is no big deal."_

 _"_ _If you're sure…"_

 _"_ _If it were truly up to me, we'd be going to that new pizza joint downtown that everybody's raving about. But Pheebs insisted we play this geeky board game she found at some garage sale. You know how nerds like Pheebs and Geraldo can't resist a board game.…" Here she might have gagged dramatically._

 _"_ _I like board games okay."_

 _"_ _I'm surrounded…."_

 _"_ _Whatever…."_

 _"_ _They'll be over at six-thirty—you know how to get here, right?"_

 _"_ _The bus stop on 7_ _th_ _?"_

 _"_ _Correcto."_

 _"_ _You're sure you don't want me to bring anything? Or pick up a cake?"_

 _"_ _Got it covered."_

 _"_ _Okay." He paused, unsure how to proceed._

 _"_ _Hello-o?"_

 _"_ _I'm… looking forward to seeing you again, Helga."_

 _"_ _Naturally." She'd hung up the phone before he could continue. So much for that._

There was a thin layer of dust sprinkled over the tops of the many cassette tapes crammed into the bottom shelf. Arnold squatted to get a closer look. They weren't arranged in any particular order—this one was how to speak basic conversational French, this one a discourse on fancy wines, another about etiquette at formal events, and a definitely Helga-resonating series on top-down business delegation—and then it caught his eye. The dust-free strip here indicated this less-faded-looking one had been the last to have been played, or at least moved, maybe even fairly recently.

Phoebe's sharply curious voice almost caused him to hit his head. "So Arnold, are you excited about your fellowship?" she called to him over her glass.

"Aw, babe, don't make him talk about work—"

"But it's so fascinating! Here I am, mired in academia, while all of you are off having fun being _real_ adults—Helga's published, Arnold's—"

"But we just got here," Gerald groaned.

"Oh Arnold, he's just jealous because he loves dinosaurs—"

"We've got all night to question him," Gerald scoffed. "Here, try some of this."

"Postponing!" she giggled as she neatly accepted a piece of cheese from the plate Gerald was wafting under her nose.

Arnold quickly went back to his detective-work, sliding the mystery tape into the warm glow from the nearby lamp.

"Come on, you chuckleheads—"

This time, he actually did hit his head on the shelf. Phoebe's gasp of concern made it even worse, and he felt Helga's eyes on him long before he turned around to smile sheepishly at the group.

"You all right, man?"

"Fine! I'm okay." Arnold rubbed quickly at the sore spot, hoping it wouldn't bruise.

"Hey—what're you doing over there?" The silence after her sharp question was swift. Arnold could feel his heart beating in his ears.

"Just… tying my shoe." He could no longer avoid looking directly at her as she stood still in the narrow doorway to the tiny galley kitchen. Her eyes were wide and unblinking. He knew without a doubt she knew exactly what he'd been up to. "Sorry, Helga." Maybe if he feigned innocence, at least he could fool Phoebe and Gerald. "Can I help you with anything?"

Her rigid posture melted into a slight slump against the door frame as she folded her arms. The effect was almost comical, as she was wearing ancient (and very charred) oven mitts. "Not really, but since I know you'll _insist_ , you can grab some plates."

"Sure." Arnold brightened.

Phoebe chimed in, already threading her way nimbly past Helga into the kitchen, "I'll help too—Helga, your cutlery drawer is over here, right?"

Helga disappeared into the kitchen and snickered, "Thanks Pheebs—we all know how inept Arnoldo is with silverware."

Gerald laughed, "Are you gonna let her talk about you like that, Arnold?" He grabbed a stack of napkins and a new bottle of wine and followed Phoebe towards the table that was wedged into the corner by the window.

Phoebe chimed in, "I can't imagine how terrible Arnold must be if I'm held up as the golden standard, Helga—"

 _Gerald's phone call last week wasn't wholly unexpected, but Arnold had been surprised at its portent._

 _"_ _Hey Arnold, Helga's having us over to celebrate Phoebe's birthday a little late since it's a holiday weekend. I can't wait to play this new game Phoebe found!"_

 _"_ _And you're telling me this because…"_

 _"_ _You're gonna love this one, man. It's way better than The King Rules—"_

 _"_ _What?"_

 _Gerald was on a roll. "And—I can't believe I'm saying this—but Helga's actually_ fun _sometimes. No offense, but I don't_ need _you to thrive amongst these ladies."_

 _"_ _Uh, thanks, Gerald. Way to make a guy feel special," Arnold laughed. "So how does that make me invited, again?"_

 _Gerald harrumphed grumpily. "Arnold, where have you been, man? I swear, one day I should find a total stranger to bring over just to see what she does."_

 _Sensing a rant, Arnold asked quickly, "Why doesn't she just, you know… invite me, then?"_

 _"_ _How many times do I have to tell you? Helga's been playing this game forever. She never invites us to anything directly, but whenever I'm involved, you always end up coming along anyway. Seriously, when have you two ever gone to anything together, on purpose, without somebody guilt-tripping or tricking the other one into it?"_

 _"_ _Now that you mention it..." Arnold trailed off, thinking._

 _After a moment, he heard Gerald's impatient, "Are you telling me you don't want to come?"_

 _"_ _I didn't say that. It sounds nice. Sure, I'll come."_

 _"_ _Good. You're on my team—Pataki has been talking smack so we're gonna show her how it's done."_

 _"_ _Yeah, you don't need me at all…" Arnold rolled his eyes. "What should I get for Phoebe?"_

 _"_ _I got her a silk scarf. So not a scarf."_

 _"_ _I see you're moving away from the necktie. Smooth."_

 _"_ _Shut up."_

 _Arnold was laughing at his best friend, but quickly shut his mouth when Gerald sternly said, "And it's about time you and Pataki had a talk, buddy. Don't you think?"_

"Yeah, Helga. My dinner party skills aren't too shabby." Arnold wound through the clustered furniture to cross the room.

"Really? _Do_ go on." Helga's voice called from the too-warm but good-smelling depths of her kitchen.

"Well, for one, you got any fancy napkins?" Arnold walked through the doorway and saw her standing over the sink, her hair falling out somewhat from its elastic tie as she scraped at a stubborn pan. There was a slowly simmering casserole and some rolls fresh out of the oven waiting on the counter. "Because I could totally fold them for you."

" _Psh_. Oldest trick in the book. Next thing you'll tell me, we should light a load of tapered candles and risk setting the whole place ablaze."

Outside, music that sounded suspiciously like a throwback to Ronnie Matthews blared from Helga's modest stereo. He could hear Phoebe's hysterical laughter at what was probably Gerald gyrating to the bass.

"Okay," Arnold tried again, "well, I know that a good guest doesn't let his host clean up."

He was already standing close behind her (it wasn't hard to do, considering the space), an indescribable urge to be near her taking control of him. He reached around her to pull the scrubber out of her hand and let it fall into the sink with a gentle _sloop_. "Let me take care of it later?"

Helga flinched. "Um… whatever. But only b-because—"

"Because I'll _insist_."

"Yeah. That." Helga's shoulders were scrunched up so high that they were practically touching her ears.

He tentatively mumbled, "This is really nice. You sure went to a lot of trouble… for Phoebe." And then before either of their two best friends could come bursting through the door and ruin this soap-bubble of a moment, he patted her congenially on the arm—he noted slyly that it was covered in gooseflesh—and then asked in a carrying, casual voice, "Which one has the plates?"

Helga grunted and jerked a thumb blindly behind her towards the cabinet to her right.

"Thanks." He opened the door and pulled out a stack, the plates scraping across the shelf like teeth on a glass.

"Mm. Yep." Helga sounded very far away.

"Need anything else?" The panel thudded softly closed.

"T-that's it."

"You coming?" He stood, locked in mid-stride, on the threshold to the main room.

"In a second." Her knuckles were white against the counter. "I've… I've got to turn the oven off."

"It's already off."

"Oh, heh. Right. I mean, I've got to find a… spoon." She busily wiped her wet hands on the hem of her skirt and peered determinedly into the corners of the kitchen counter, behind stacks of bowls and around a small pile of chocolate cupcakes.

"A spoon?"

"Yes, a spoon. You know, the roundest of the utensils." She mimed scooping something in the air.

He caught her eye and grinned before ducking quickly through the door. He could hear her whip out a drawer and violently rummage through it. He thought of her whispering agitatedly to herself, for no particular reason except that it just seemed funny.

Dinner was a relatively normal affair—no one threw any plates or belted each other over the head with a half-eaten salami, and everyone chewed without humming. Arnold experienced a solid minute of glee imagining what levels of rage a sound like that could potentially trigger in his childhood bully.

He chanced a glance towards Helga's face, mentally rehearsing and rewording several iterations of an invitation to the boarding house. Maybe he'd finally ask her to come eat there at the same time he did, for once. Maybe he'd wiggle it somehow into conversation. "Hey Gerald, remember that time we tried to get Suzie and Oskar back together?"

"You mean the time we failed miserably at it, but they got back together anyway?"

"Who are Suzie and Oskar?" Phoebe asked.

"Just the worst couple in the history of the universe!"

"They're not _that_ bad—"

"Not that _bad_? They fight all the time!" Gerald laughed.

Helga sat up straighter and pointed her fork at Gerald. "Geez, who _doesn't_ fight all the time? Hell, my parents are still together. If those bozos can make it work, then nobody else has an excuse." Helga took a hasty swig of her sparkling cider.

Arnold knew Helga knew about the Kokoshkas, at least Suzie, anyway. Suzie still hosted Wednesday night meetings at the boarding house, as far as he'd heard. Miriam had always made a point to say hello to him on her way to the living room—the sentiment was nice despite her forgetting his name half the time—and to wax poetic about him taking care of Helga, even if it had been years since he'd last conked her on the head.

The next Ronnie Matthews song began in the background, and Gerald started bobbing his head dramatically while he chewed.

Phoebe pushed the bridge of her glasses a little further up her nose and poked Gerald impatiently. "How did you try to get them back together, Arnold?"

"We set up this over-the-top romantic dinner date on the roof," he paused to smirk at Helga, "with tapered candles and everything." He chuckled, a far-off look on his face. "And while Gerald serenaded them with his violin, Oskar pretty much broke all of Suzie's toes."

Gerald guffawed, cutting in to take over the remainder of the story.

"What a chump! I amend my statement." Helga shook her head and folded her arms. "And she actually took him back?"

Phoebe's eyes were bright with mirth. "Stranger things have happened…"

Gerald caught on immediately, and set down his glass with a clink and a devious eyebrow-wiggle. "Correct you are, my dear. I seem to recall witnessing a similar bizarre implosion of reality just last—"

Helga suddenly cut across Gerald with a rousing, "So! How's the new radio gig treating you? What's it like being the famous DJ Urban Legend?"

"Oh it's great! Speaking of which, you guys got any leads for some up-and-coming local artists? I'm trying to line up a couple live programs."

"Yeah," Arnold piped up, "there's a place I just found downtown—lots of big band revival. You and Phoebe should totally check it out."

Throughout the remainder of the meal, a slight glistening on Helga's temple was the only thing that might have given her secret away, but Phoebe's animated gushing over how wonderful the casserole was acted as an effective distraction, at least for Gerald, who vigorously nodded and agreed with everything she said. Arnold tucked this detail away for later, just in case he needed it.

The decidedly _not_ normal part was the supremely alien goings-on under the cozy table. Arnold, fidgeting in his forced proximity to the woman on his right, had at some point grazed her knee with his, but either through lack of action on his part or lack of notice on hers, there they stayed. Maybe she allowed it because the table _was_ pretty small. Or maybe she didn't care—they _had_ known each other since they were in preschool. It wasn't like they had to live by some formal code of conduct.

And when Arnold returned from the sparse, yet quaint, bathroom and plopped back into his chair as his friends set up the dreaded board game, it was her leg that gently nudged a comfortable spot next to his. So then it was his turn to boldly leave his own where it was.

"Boys versus girls? Really, how old are we, Geraldo?"

"What, afraid to lose, Helga?" Arnold laughed.

Helga seemed to forget any hostility toward the game itself as she and Phoebe soundly defeated Arnold and Gerald. At some point, Helga triumphantly gambled Gerald's tie away, and had fastened it, crown-like, around her head.

Later, Phoebe sprawled on the worn oriental rug to diligently browse through Helga's jumbled collection of documentaries, obscure French films, and wrestling montages, but the intention to watch a movie dissolved quickly. She climbed back onto the couch with Gerald.

"Hey Arnold," Gerald drawled, "You know a good money guy? We're trying to save up to buy a nicer place."

Arnold shrugged. "I can give you Torvald's number. He helped me figure out how to refinance my loans."

Gerald shook his head. "Who knew all those good deeds were just network-building…"

"Give me a break!" Helga sniggered. "He's just lucky he escaped a beating."

"You're one to talk, Pataki. Big Patti almost _killed_ you once."

"Nah, Saint Arnold here talked her out of it." Helga lazily pointed a bare toe.

"Really? I didn't even know that!" Phoebe gasped.

Gerald chortled, "You mean, you still have your spleen intact?"

"What can I say? I'm an award-winning actress."

Arnold shook his head, "What, no thanks for saving your life?"

"I've gone this long. What's a few more years?" Helga's eyes were unfathomable across the room.

They had been clustered for a while around the battered coffee table, talking and laughing about old times, when Gerald yawned wide, stretching his arms to the ceiling. He turned to notice Phoebe had long since dropped asleep against him, mouth agape and glasses askew.

"Well, guess that's our signal that it's time to go home." Gerald laughed gently. "Hey. Hey—wake up, Phoebe. Time to go."

"Huh!? Oligodendroglioma!" Phoebe shouted, making Arnold almost launch his hot chocolate across the room. "Cerebellar astrocytoma!"

"Whoa there, Pheebs," Helga rolled her eyes skyward and slid her bare legs along and off the table edge, where they had been comfortably resting for an hour or so. She rubbed absent-mindedly at the pink indentation on her calf. "I think you'd better lay off the wine for a while."

"Carried away…" Phoebe was babbling as Gerald helped her slip on her blazer. "Lovely evening… you're the best friend…" she rubbed at one eye with one hand and reached to loop her other arm around Helga's neck. To avoid being thusly clotheslined, Helga hastily stood to usher the couple to the door, surrendering Gerald's tie as Phoebe bent to put on her shoes.

Her voice carried from the entryway. "Yeah, yeah. Next time, your place. Sure. Be safe." The door shut soundly, and then it was quiet.

She returned the few steps to the living room to find Arnold still in his seat waiting for her.

"So…."

Arnold blinked. "So?"

"It's getting late." She leaned an elbow on the back of her chair, but she didn't sit down.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. He noticed satisfactorily that it didn't have an audible tick. "Late?"

"Don't you have something to do? Or somewhere to go?" She tapped a finger on the fabric, _puck-puck-puck_ , much nicer than a mechanical tick, anyway.

"Not really. Do you want me to leave?"

"I won't kick you out, if that's what you're saying," she challenged.

He smiled and leaned forward. "Because you're a good host, right?"

"Right. And good guests know when it's time to vamoose."

"Guess you're right." He let his chin fall into his hand, considering her sincerely. "But I still need to wash the dishes."

She started. Her elbow slipped off the chair back. "Oh, I—I forgot. You really don't have to—"

"But I want to. If you want—" he stood, and rolling up his sleeves, sighed, "—you can catch me up. From the last time we… talked." He plucked the empty mug off the coffee table.

If he didn't know better, a corner of her mouth may have twitched upward. "That's it, huh?"

"Yep. Just talk to me." Along the way to the kitchen, he grabbed one of the wooden chairs from under the table and swung it ahead of him through the door.

She slouched behind him into the kitchen. "I still don't get your angle." _Something he could work with._

"Does there have to be an angle? I've missed talking to you." The chair clunked onto the rough tile. "In person, anyway." He shrugged.

"We've been jawin' all night." She expertly spun the chair around and, ever the dainty lady, straddled it, skirt and all, to slump over the back. "What's left to talk about?"

"You could tell me when you learned how to cook so well." Arnold plugged the sink and turned on the faucet. The running water zinged around the edges as it warmed.

"Easy." Helga snapped her fingers. "Eleven-thirty this morning."

"I'm impressed." He grabbed the bottle of dish soap from the counter and added a liberal amount to the water.

"Let's just say I'm a fast learner." Arnold heard the legs of the chair tip one way and then the other. The sound was oddly comforting.

Arnold picked up the stack of plates and slid them into the sink. _So You Want to Learn to Cook—Three-Course Meal-Planning for the Novice Chef_. "I kind of gathered that."

"Of course you did, you snoop."

Arnold coughed slightly.

Helga continued, "I do have quite a load of previous experience with peeling potatoes, but I would say I've improved considerably. Olga can go jump up a rope with all her complicated masterpieces."

Arnold transferred the first plate to the drying rack on the counter. "You still can't stand her, huh?"

"It's not so bad anymore, not since Alaska. I've learned to accept it, mostly." She snorted. "Thanksgiving still royally blows, though."

"Maybe we should throw one together." He picked up another plate. "That way, if it's terrible, we'll know for sure it's the holiday itself that's awful or if it's our families…."

"It's both. You at least have to let me do something," Helga demanded, and for a crazy instant he thought she'd somehow agreed to have Thanksgiving with him, but he noticed her usual impatience to change the subject. "I can't just sit here like Mary Sunshine and watch you wash dishes."

"But you made cupcakes and everything." Arnold argued unconvincingly.

Helga scoffed. "That's kid stuff. It's all there on the box."

"You can dry if you want, but that's it." He pulled the cleaner-looking of the two dish towels off the oven door handle and held it out to her, waiting.

She looked at the towel for several moments before she snatched it out of his hand. "Deal." She stood and stretched, cracking several bones, then elbowed him congenially so he would make room for her at the counter.

They talked for a while in Helga's kitchen, the fluorescent light over the sink finally illuminating everything.

After the plates and glasses and all the silverware were clean, dry, and happily nestled in their respective homes, the two retired to the living room to deliberate a while longer.

And then, to have a change of scenery, they figured they might as well have a chat in her bedroom.

And the next morning, Arnold decided they needed to talk again in the kitchen, but this time it was Helga's turn to do the dishes.


End file.
